The broad leaves of the sycamore tree fall onto the small car,
once all the leaves have fallen, the car’s colour turns white,
receiving signals from the stars of the departed
Walking down the scorching streets of Moscow,
Osip turned to Anna and said:
“I’m ready to die.”
Rimbaud said that every poem is the last.
Suppose you held what you love so tightly
you broke it
Suppose you let something slip away
Your voice, echoing in the narrow and dark corridor,
continuously echoing, warm and bright,
as if beyond this ordinary dusk
there is no hunger, toil and separation in the world.
In this article, I review four translations of Sappho produced over the past six decades.
It’s as if you’d woken in a locked cell and found
in your pocket a slip of paper, and on it a single sentence in a language you don’t know.
Then I became an erasure poem.
those alleys seven times knifed then again then always
to be part of the tight knit gathered round over a sewer cover
to watch as they germinate
the stars no one of us had sown
…thunder is like a guarantee that everything exists,
that the wine will not sour,
that the season will turn again,
as it always has.
Someone is telling us an old tale —
someone is sobbing and praying
to be given a pair of wings.
The Arabian poets say
that fate is the lurch
of a blind stray camel.
What would happen in this vast dagger
If America stopped eating human flesh
For three days?