Words again, little coloring books,
Like the outlines of promises yet
Fulfilled;
The bodies up like lunatics,
Practicing with the pages of their wings,
Trying to recapture the
Scarred aphrodisiacs of
Lighthouse attendants and
Firemen,
In the fine braveries of a
Single star, or a single tear,
Or the heartfelt apologies of
A greeting card,
For there could never be
Anything more sincere.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem