The bottle seems to disappear into the lips of
Lonely flowers
And even makes me think to figure that I am doing good
Work,
Even while this ladder leads up to nowhere,
Or just high enough to scratch at planes’ bellies;
And if we sold fruit up here imagine all of the nose bleeds:
Imagine the theatre and the fans;
Or the places we could go alone to be floating on banks,
To figure ourselves out and really in love:
To smell the scents of the game, or to just lie on our stomachs
And watch all the waves messing around.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
nice piece! full of emotion and worth to ponder on! ! ! =]