Summer turned us copper
like Indian sepoys.
Steam trains running through rickety
almond groves, overcrowded
in those years and suffering air attacks.
I walked the little town, too hung-over
to remember the rhyme-scheme
of a villanelle.
Now I swim alone in baggy trunks
at the 42nd Street Y.
At my hotel, I sit opposite a telephone
booth; a dome light turns on
when the doors close.
The white dusk shoots in.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem