I’ve made bad choices wrongly translated
I’m here without fail shaking violently.
Maybe I could do with new courses
or maybe I could’ve loved you more so
that this doubt, trembling, be abated.
So I may get to sleep more gently
The night feigns peace, I’ve restless
rain blurred on my neck and chest
where I’m feverish to the touch
somehow older by lunar math—doesn’t mean much
I’m deeply drunk on a sadness
with a crumpled calendar as a crutch
Soon as I land, I am hurried along
as if sitting on the weaved edge being flung
from one xistera to the next
Often forgetting the therapeutic Song
which keeps me from stagnation, saved or sung,
vocalized, thought to text.
