from Thơ Lê An Thế (2008)
Through the slits between my fingers. I see you
leaving behind. Colors from the moon slipping through like
threads. Tangled and dissolved. I have sown them onto my
left chest. As for the other half I still wait for a
knock.
The part on the right has slipped from me. Like a noon cock-crow
turning ancient. I break down in stages. Expanding with
echoing sounds. I cocoon yet won’t turn into a
butterfly. And the sun will be leaning. Towards afternoon.
I recall so in my poem.
at last all those nightly glasses of wine have turned into
contraceptive pills
because I don’t want to leave any traces
of my illicit relationships
with the stars on the sky
everything was so perfect
when he closed the door and left
right afterwards I felt no need to get into my clothes
when my shadow
had lain down quietly
like a still-life
.