Though the water rises above its rim
swallows one dime . . .
two dimes . . . and three
and you think this time it'll spill over
but it doesn't,
the water remaining tense.
I, too, had days I filled up like this
with thoughts of someone,
remaining tense.
Why doesn't the glass break?
In those days I did
break . . . in the end.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem