Slowly
This diamond cut spring,
I am inconsolable
My dying held in shape
with metal sutures
The post office is sixteen breaths away
but never brings good news
Your lapses hurt a thousand-fold more
than the indifference of Manhattan
What lies in stock after festive spring has gone?
What lies in stock?
A blue-uniformed carer perhaps
transmuting the sorcerer of my pain
This non-surgical tumor is an immortal sestina
that my body has created from its polished dangers
My heart is restless
and the cuisine of winds bitter
I will leave sweet poems
for the shrine of your heart
So what if life is no longer in stock
So what if rain fills my pen
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem