n the autumn afternoon a wound festers in the crack of
the asphalt roads in the city
once a pasture field for the native Pequot Indians
What fraud and deceptions do the window-curtains hide?
Doves and pigeons do not know the color of hope
My cigarette stubb I interred beside the Bridge of Frogs
while the traffic procession headed for the Foxwood Casino
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem