Hunkered down, nerve-numb,
in the carnal hut,
the cave of self,
while outside a storm
rages.
Huddled there,
rubbing together
white sticks of
your own ribs,
praying for sparks
in that dark
where tinder is heart,
where tender is not.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem