Morning

You have lost the legitimacy of the morning.

The sheets waft of stale vomit;

your mouth dries with thirst.

It aches, this morning that you have lost.

The loneliness of saying "good morning",

the used toothbrush beside yours,

your once flexible heart—

these are the things you cannot take back.

The words that you said

The people you have hurt—

these do not leave so easily.

And you, you who lost

lie here in this broken sanctity

and determine which were the nights you regret

and which you do not.

Translator

She tries at translation,

in the language of a page:

over the outlines of meaning

in the fluency that eludes her.

How little one does know.

Dictionary taken by hand,

she dances, stutter-step through the silhouettes of words,

in the forlornness of languages not understood.

Be okay, translator,

be okay.

Life makes for little than a lonesome metaphor,

but still live on, here in the meanings

only the solitary find.