So un-asleep, the sheet's
a beach of footprints
waiting for the tide.
Her shape is question-marked,
crucified, an inquisition
scales her eyes.
Wincing at infinities,
she stares a spot
and picks at it.
Each star a prick,
a javelin
thrown across the centuries
makes waves
just deep enough to swim
before light breaks
her open skin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem