The death of many things and all trespasses
Apathetically on the livings’ cages:
And on their houses and what all, while I lived today,
Alma,
And ran my fingers across the blinds of your ribs:
Maybe it is true that you stole them from me,
And made it all the way home from
Mexico, but I don’t care:
You live here now, and I am yours, and maybe we will
Have children,
But I don’t care: whatever possibilities can blow on the
Winds,
As long as you happen to me tomorrow, and tomorrow
Again and again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem