Killing whatever gold summers come in their outgoing vestments-
You step out in a purple curtain,
And smile through your brownness: and I like it, when you remember
Where the cars drive alongside the overgrown fences,
And the crooked mailboxes that sway like nodding gravestones:
They just go this way, and I have to imagine the ways that you take
Home to your kids,
Because you get angry when I follow you too far, the insouciant airplanes
Taking off like bottle rockets,
And other assured but meaningless things, who only move because
They have to.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem