This evening I shared a cab with a priest
who said it was a fine day to ride cross town
with a writer. But I can't
finish the play I said,
it's full of snow.
walked slowly, a cigarette warmed
Some of the best sermons
don't have endings, he said
while the tires rotated unceasingly
All over town people were waiting
and doubleparked and
making love and waiting.
The temperature dropped
until the shiverers zipped their jackets
and all manner of things started up again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem