or a Russian Itch
You always write
so flawlessly
it's difficult to find
a misplaced period
and not for the reason
of fault looking
it's because everything
is so idealistically shaded
and your meanings
so elegantly couched
make me feel
a seventh-year itch
and like desert cacti
intending to bloom
all I need is a little dew
from a flask of Vodka.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem