There is no one home but her,
And my shadow lean stands out upon the wall.
My boxer's that she wears are but a door,
The back door that I have come to know to well.
Through the window in her room a blinking star,
Distracted by the light, I do not think the moon
is full by touch, I feel it is.
I hear that all to familiar hum and what it is,
An early winter orange that is sour to the tounge.
In her guilded bed of yellow bronze, dead a sleep.
Over incoherent moan's
Warm and still her body moves and the vibrator,
I hear it is still on.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem