hands seem to grow
smaller with age.
the maps neath the eyes
go from destiny to love.
love that had no horse,
but worked a mule.
and kingdoms only thus,
manure, and sweat.
your body perfume,
rust of a moth's wings...
hymnals made of dust,
simple words, bent nails.
love's sap dried
on your thighs and lips.
no names, no images,
just small hands seeking touch!
Wow, I'm glad I didn't miss this. Those images..did you sell your soul for those, or just a few decades? lol
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
No names no images just small hands seeking touch! ! Deeply moving, thank you for share.