Oasis and cloaca,
love birds parched,
now moves caravansary
toward heart's always
winking horizons.
There are many before
the sun rises.
Perhaps my name goes
before me, my press,
Empress of Contrails,
peacocks in tow,
trailing tallies, scores,
arrivals, departures,
ejaculations, rejections,
all faces hands have held,
and yearning beyond possibility
hesitant dawn's mourning doves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem