Sitting still I bite
my lips that bleed sweet
anger on one thousand hilltops as blood
drops, combines with rain
across the face of a weary tred: My own
soaked galoshes, feel my blue fingertips,
the cold femininity of short nails
now cut straight, yet long
enough to paint the royal hues
of a famished artist
and his blue companionlike guitar-
Picasso. With winter yet to chill
our spines. Lying still, I dream of a massage,
your touch eroding my joints
with tenderness. Loosening residue of words
I cannot hear in our threshold of rain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
oh wow this is an amazing poem. the cold femininity of short nails now cut straight, yet long enough to paint the royal hues of a famished artist I adore this. Thank you