youth imagines a lot.
middle age is engaged in
some imaging,
what once was too supple
and firm
and protruding on silky white
wet upper apparel
and what seems to be a tiny
island of a shadow
in between two
sides
then comes the last portion of
the story of the wine,
it is aged
a new flavor comes to the
nostrils:
memories of lights and shadows
oranges and tequila
and hands and thighs
and lips and tongues
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem