Transl. Eva Bourke
whoever walks here looks suspicious.
the clapboard houses in blue and gray,
warmed by the sun.
the cricket engine purring more slowly,
and a sky promoting nothing but itself.
the first dry leaves float down
as if a library were on fire somewhere.
weeks still, days at least,
until winter pushes its blizzards against
the flimsy window panes.
towards the north lie the great lakes,
and the wind sweeps through all the way to chile.