Knowing there are
many words for night;
nightwatch, nightshade, nightfall
but none for the space
of a halved bed,
an envelope starched,
flat with white,
unslept in
and hands devoid of
a trace of perfume or
rest warmth, a slight breath,
a gentle curve.
Let him cherish the lost presence
of a drowned moon
of darkness long
of standing time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem