are shed, and every day
workers recover
the bloated cadavers
of lovers or lover
who drown in cars this way.
And they crowbar the door
and ordinary stories pour,
furl, crash, and spill downhill -
as water will - not orient,
nor sparkling, but still.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
If only someone had helped them roll down the windows of the soul, perhaps the water would have only washed away their sadness not drown their hearts... great poem.