the vertigo of dwarves--
seven bites into a snowy
apple.
caramelizing dusk.
a full viewing.
her overslept perfection.
her eyelashes flaking off
tremorous go betweens.
her cheeks, rash & unapplied
blush--what's soup to winter.
or what feigns the circulature
of a latter stir.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem