Pour into glasses
and dreams slowly bubbly
Achieving islands uninterrupted rigging
dusk weeping face
Maybe the sky was blue beyond
Between Louisville was a stranded island
Within self-guzzler
Within pedestrian
Shoes stepped between snow
Who never stopped looking for shelter
Cold air from the storm outside
The islands are left in a staggered
The legs do not tick-early evening hours
in the hands of
Postcards lined in rooms such as mosaic bricks
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem