Here I am again,
pocketful of happiness,
bottles of love.
Disappearance is a virtue,
Jean Renoir on mute.
How many angels fit on the head of a syringe?
I lost count again.
Thinking of you,
thought goes to bed.
Sports and music and politics,
all the trappings of the integrated: gone.
My reel runs out in bliss,
a valediction to the pain which I no longer deem necessary.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
gathering in moments, morelike, not drowning in place. well done, sjg~!