There are pages torn
from the books I've written
in mentioning
you or suns being split open
and their yokes
sopped up,
everything yellowing.
There are pages torn
in mentioning, you
where I know the day
folds neatly to night
and the nights are
like gestures and postures
and I never forget them
and they are never forgotten.
I wrote those poems
that i took out of those
books of Poem's whose
pages iv'e stolen
where the lines I've written aren't mine
and that verse and what isn't mine
encompassing, are all lies.
I know wholly
what I've done.
I know wholly those poems are mine.
I know you're on one of those pages
I
tore out
in one of those words
meaning something beautiful
I
Wish I could say.
But, everything is yellowing-
just like you'd want.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An honest and poignant poem, Rocky. Thanks