hovered round
your stolidity
and my mischief
breathless waiting
boundless despair
no stone unturned,
so I give in to
perpetual pin-pointing
as I grovel for
that smug twitch
or a sudden touch.
Me growing old,
You going cold.
People died today
somewhere in Italy
and all I could think of
was your hand on my thigh.
may,2012
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem