Men living in the Palo Alto Wetlands use disposable diapers to keep themselves warm. Their campfire rages across the street from the city dump. There’s that smell of newborns. Cold wind threatens from the south. A moonless night discourages clouds. The top half of the world has blown off, letting in the stars. Men wrap diapers around their shoulders, like grandmothers with knitted shawls.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem