You’ve said you’ve read my poems every night,
But your mouth was dry for
A man with a guitar or anchors on his
Muscles,
While the things I’ve grown went out and got
A job,
And still bloomed sickly that way:
And you said, yes, you were thankful to get
The love letters in the mailbox,
And during the beginning stages of your last
Transcendental relationship
You might even have been confused:
You have so many friends and so much booze,
Its easy for you to fall in love with anyone
Just because I suppose you have so little
Faith in me to lose.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem