sometimes when the traffic weakens
you feel you could have the run of the city
in memorium. when there were
no capitalisations, only silent confetti
and these light needles
back through these shut blinds
seam all the day mine.
safe in this little cell, out a way
from dark tourisms smaller and smaller ghosts.
sometimes a greater fear rips an emptiness
where everyone runs so petty.
with spears and one conch shell,
smashing ugly, pulsing lightbulbs
upon the streets like fish of jelly.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem