and where do we go
from here alone
on a beach it's time
clicking like the sound
of dried bones
rubbing together
inside the casket tumbled
by the fault line
once more the ocean
rushes to shore and
I find you again
death always near
like a clock's tocktact
flung deep beneath
the moon spiked surf
against the call
the call of heaven
waiting for misery to be
folded again and again
into the soup of suicide
along with the jagged edges
of last night's immediate dream
where I put you on like a mysterious coat
and you spoke to me in a foreign language
I answered you
sounding like the grinding
of a knife being sharpened against
a wheel of stone
what was it you were saying
what could I have been thinking
saying
what it was
I said
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem