With ice hair
standing still, your head turned,
you are viewed down, reduced
to make you faceless,
curved as a dolphin,
Cressida under neon
watching you watching.
A broken wheel between
two spaces, hanging on
strings. Your eyes are
off the moment;
quiet as Vermeer;
posed at an empty door,
nothing moves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem