Our
black boots
hold ice cube
toes,
with us looking straight
ahead.
Lake Michigan pisses
snow on our dry,
red fingers.
Wind whips our
snotty noses.
Waiting in ranks for Frost
to bite.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Aye! Sounds like Pirate Boot camp, except you might end up inside Lake Michigan. You got a unique style, I will say that.