[Untitled] Poem by Dorothea Grossman
[Untitled]
I don't own an exquisite way to move around in the night
—Doug Benezra
It occurs to me that,
when I die,
they might find the necklace
I dropped behind the bed
and wonder
how long it was there,
and whether I'd missed it.
But will they care
about my favorite color,
my long-range plans,
or my habit of searching myself
for signs of rust?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/4/2024 1:44:37 AM # 1.0.0.1119
