A south wind calls now
for Mexican life. Dirt road driveway scattering chickens walking to
work in a produce stand replenishing plantains and lettuce, in the daytime,
typewriter-writing and tequila with the moon,
pillow-side language training with a young, creamed-coffee skinned
bride.
Twilight tangos while the chickens sleep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem