A night of freezing rain has turned the snow banks
into Eames, into molded plastic
At the bus stop, our muster lacks punch
Our faces are drawn to our salt-dusted boots
Signs warn children about wasted motion
lest they thaw too soon
The sun looks like a tea stain on Somerset paper
A missal of boys in black hoodies pass smoke
and exhale coronas they look like
Assisi looking for sparrows
before their colors ripen and vanish
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem