(i)
You light up
unstained night
with half-sun.
A firmer
graphite of storm
rides over you,
as you
bleach it into
lace candle skin.
But you
unfold your
sea
of cream wax
with
feathers
gathering
no ashes for
a splashed
fly sprinkling
embers
of the speck
that doesn't
turn flower
to be picked
and
stroked
by a soft
finger
blowing a flute
of touch,
the brush
to shine you
into a tray
dishing out
light
to an eye
that breathes
it in,
churns it
and lets a cream
rose
crawl on your
face
to beam you
with the ripples
and stitched
stretch mark
of a landing
grin
taking off
before eye
catches it,
as it flies,
wings blending
with melting
candle light.
(ii)
O moonstone,
you burn
your eyes into
mine,
crawling with
floating legs
into a campfire
by a wing
of your tent
sheltering me
with beams
from your lighthouse,
as I swim
in your spray
of a cerulean sea,
a high-perched sky
on light legs
crawling
on my unclothed
palm to grab
a handkerchief
to clear off
rivers on the cheeks
of a rocky mourner
perched
on the peak
of moth light
you powder me with.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem