My parents’ horses feed in the sky: they are big enough
To devour the largest fire in Arizona’s history,
Or to feed from the hand of a god
That knows all about them, and keeps them in his
Petty zoo that I do not believe him, while I sit
On my thinking rock at the end of the bluff and count
The insouciant traffic, so far and so distant
From West Palm Beach: the sky has her own palette
Here I am sure that you do not know- and the fossils
Lay beneath her like chalk-
And when the moon comes out, the horses are yet
There feeding,
But they cannot imagine that the light that they eat
Is not even hers to give.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem