They get fat off of their echoes like
Tourists enjoying all of my scars- they just
Happen to shed their skin
As they slide in and out of trailer parks, and
Ferris Wheels,
And flea markets: with her little children beckoning
Beside her like miniature lighthouses,
How is it that she can ever again think of me:
But I gave her son Michael fireworks
For his last holiday,
And the planes continuing galloping
Across the mowed field where she parks her car:
As she falls asleep beside him again for one
More night, neither one of them interested in
Discovering what they really are.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem