Driving to a poetry read at night
through Ohio’s frosted fields
we talk our way there
past the dark prison in Mansfield
and into the lights of the town.
Four of us bringing the word
to strangers gathered round tables
drinking hot coffee and teas
listening to the strumming of guitars,
waiting to share our purposeless purpose
all on a wintry night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem