(i)
Bite me with
needles of cold
whirring winds,
when shadows
cover me
with cold nylon
palms of artic
smacks and snaps
freezing me up
into an icy coat
I wear firmly
without gnashing
teeth; without
freaking out
with a porcupine's
arrows flashed
and flipped out
at creeping
daisy
and alabaster
quiet air
spiraling with spun
loops of cold hairs
of fog and mist
carrying cold
worms cut off
from hearths
of their whole bodies.
Harvesting
cotton and pearl
fingers from
a tree carrying
more soaked
butterflies
of splashed rain
to roll on
wheels of scarred
feet sipping
dewy and wet
leaves spat out
by sky's clouds.
(ii)
The sun now
rises with barking
molars
and forked
tongues of snaky
rays, whisking
glowing tails
wagged and curled
by dogs
with fire in their
eyes, no rainbow
veils scooped
out from
deep hot shrieking
and singing
waterfalls
to cover me
with filtering
herringbone
weaves
of sprouting,
spurting smoke
I shrug off
my shoulders
with lances
of my tossed
and hurled cutting
palms hanging
in shredded air
of me
in a furnace.
(iii)
The whipping
nibbling sun
rages on with
overgrown
fingers of rays
swimming
through fur I wear,
when air's
feathers no longer
tuck crowing
afterfeathers
and wings
into my bushy
hairs to make me
fly and glide
with a condor's
spread and spray,
as pile weaves
from grasses
and thorny vines
coat and hug me.
And more spikes
of sun
scratch off
beds of sludge
holding
me tight across
a strait of noon.
(iv)
The sun strikes
me with
overgrown spikes
of whistling
thorns, when
moths
and breezes
of my fabric
brush and blow
flowers
into cracks
and yawning
caved-in
wounds
of my bleeding
inner bowl.
(v)
O inner self
of mine
swinging between
cold and hot,
hand out to me
a bunch of pansies
to fan me
with a breeze
from sea shores
and hot hands
woven by soft
rubbing stokes
sun-breathing trees
filter down
to a quiet nook.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem