The wind surface drags across
the moon and bangs the shed door
in white drizzle. On the tar black
road a lone 18 wheeler
hauls tomatoes to Buffalo.
In our room, your face
illuminated by the cherry tip
of your cigarette.
The pockets of my great coat
are full of Bradford pears
and Richelieu apples. We'll feed them
soon to the old horse, the two of us
before the children wake up.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem