What might she send — a wet sleeve,
or platter of brine-latticed bluefish
dusky with capers, lemons, wine;
a briar for your thumb, a mouth,
lunatic, to suck the blood:
a signal that one too often
inside & now beside herself with thoughts
of you wonders how she might woo
and through dew-whetted keyhole
pursue & sing & win? She is marvelous
with waiting. Come. Hunt here.
Relieve with hands and tongue her heavy hour.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem