Like sand between the toes
of those who live alone
in seaside bungalows,
time will not atone,
only forget the deed.
Beneath the waxing moon
the ugly mermen need
the salt of early June,
a flask of rum or gin
bright as the waves' shellac,
the porpoise's swift fin,
or heart no longer black.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem