'What you are struggling with,' said
the psychologist, 'is
a continuous song, something like
a telephone's tone. Nebulous, noncommittal,
unrelenting, pretending
to give you messages it can't deliver.
Because the body is unattached. It is,'
he said, 'like a valentine sent
out cold, beautiful, brittle as tomorrow's
deja-vu, but distortedly misaddressed.
These pills will help you
find yourself
somewhere where the lace ends up loose
and the paste is still humming
all about you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem