something moves
it is
the eyeless terror
reaching for your skin
it is a hand
cold
rigid
dying in
the distance
your skin
also cold
distant
pale shroud in the dark
stiffens
turns
defends
it is a game played
by children
fingers
creeping up the sheet
in slow public terror
of anticipation
terror of desire
[how hard it is not
to stumble walking
when the need is to
break into a run]
if I break trying
not to touch
your skin
a damp ghost derived
from a shape from the
past
grows hair
nipples
of cold
pulls me down
whitely into the
night
if I stumble
i fear the living
who do not come live
in my hands
desire
that lost its shapes
accidental small
beginnings
every woman
I touch
turns into
you
and I am starved
for human contact
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem