Like signing a blank page
I entered the sensible emptiness
willingly stepped on fresh snow
I work my way piecemeal
filling in the phrases as I go.
Pictures of you
created by the minute
a conspiracy of skin, hands and hearts
the words that sleep on my tongue
go forth in minute bursts
each day brings a collage of eyes
no one is safe
I put on the glasses that
make me look naked
I see you, reflected
on my soul.
That ache without a label
should we name it?
My mind creaks
like an ancient drawbridge
connecting you to me
Maybe we should see
what the name would be
when the page is full
and the ink has run out
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem