I stood in the alley, still
in pajamas, somebody's shoes,
another man's coat, my eyes
on the bronc of the hoses.
Squawed in the blankets of neighbors,
my wife and three children sipped
chocolate, stood orange and still.
Of the hundred or more I had stored
in a drawer, I could remember,
comma for comma, no more than four,
none of them final,
all of them fetal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
How tragic losing your words to the fire, how miraculous you and yours were safe....I mourn with you, the loss of the sentences that failed to survive....ahhh, but once they did live. Your writes always fascinate me....I am indeed a following fan. PEACE