You rolled across
my body and
soul, 
working the
aches out of my
tired back.
This poem won't
behave.
The writing streak
is over.
I know that
all good things
must come to
an end.
The sidewalk
cracks, 
the glasses break, 
both bull and
matador die.
And when I lie down
at night
on the living
room couch, 
the ten steps
to your bed and
your heart
seem like
a thousand miles away.                
                    This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem