This Sunday morning I am trying to write poetry sober:
I am inside my yellow house, but it is a long ways until
October:
I have the Virgin of Guadalupe inside the foyer of my house;
It is her grotto,
But for now I am the only soul inside my house,
And the sky swings above the roof as smoky as a censer:
I can hear the lips of airplanes whispering above my roof,
And the legs of pedestrians chattering along the sidewalk:
All the pretty things do is talk,
And my nights are as green as emerald and Alma’s eyes
Haunt me as dark as drift wood:
Her eyes haunt me as dark as the drift wood that passes through
The channels with the sword fish underneath the gaze of
The Castillo de San Marcos.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem