Delusions of sawhorses who no what you are:
You make love in the park as your day
Transcends even housewives
In a chrysalis of metamorphosis-
Their yards as pretty as dresses
Thinking nothing of makebelieve
But going down to sleep
Across the easement of the canal;
The day transcending, growing even more
Beautiful:
Flowers are being sold;
Planes are in the sky,
And you are home again:
Skin of amber,
Skin of honey,
And I sing to you from my little yard:
A cardinal, a grasshopper eager to make
Love
To the cook-fire again, just to make sure
He is not dreaming.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem