No longer negotiable as if from the summer pools:
All the paper jacks of autumn crescendo and blow away the papers
Of resolved news:
The billboards are bit by a plague, and the world continues on a journey
Of enamorous gravity: while the sun expands like
A yellowing wolf fighting traffic:
And maybe by this time next year, Alma will have forgotten me:
Run off with another man, her brown skirts skipping to and from
Mexico underneath the out of work constellation that gives so little
Its many: maybe she will no longer fear my love at
This time next year, or by the wishes of one or two more birthdays.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem