Is pailmseist mo chorp
faoi do lámha,
paipír ársa
scrollaithe fút,
ag tnúth le do rian.
Glanaim mo chraiceann,
sciúraim siar é
go pár báiteach
ionas go bpúchfaidh
do lámh mar
dhúch tatuála,
ag líníocht thar
línte dofheicthe
gach fir eile.
Níl faic ach tusa
scrábáilte ar mo chorp.
his palms are more clean
than the gods,
paper is
scrolling fast,
and heavy in the rain.
gleaming more crystalline,
silver sure I
am for bathing
in my bareness
the god of sea
takes control,
and listens there
lined defectively
with her eyes.
no face is torn
scrabbling to be clean.
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