as the Moon bares her shoulder
and turns away
another day
semi-conscious
in the 'salle de bain'
what can we tell the snake
we call the shower-hose
exposed
it's head poised
about us locked inside our body-shapes
when it knows everything
that there's no way back
for soap, for water,
for excess toothpaste on the brush
and why the hush along the towel-rail
as deep in the mirror on the wall
once again
we fail to grasp the meaning of it all
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem