Falling over and done
befitting ancient history.
Thin as the images of a dream’s foreign scene
populated with unnervingly vague and frequent faces;
their ghostly, bluish-gray, all but translucent lips engaged
in voiceless conversation conveying carefully calibrated confusion contained by a completely mislaid context of disquiet and memory…
But the speech of sleep and dreams grows distant
Echoing ever more quietly back to me
In the wake of eggs, coffee, newspaper, and cigarettes
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem