Forefinger tracing knots in plywood,
waiting for the pendulum to swing,
we sip the suspended seconds
stricken in the house of murmurs.
When a word arrives and dissipates,
we gather it in tight-lipped calm,
draping our minds in rigid requiem,
staining them with stilted purity.
Callow feet run in a straight line
from this heavy curtain into the fog
where buzzing flocks of forgeries are
inhaled by a fool's cupped ears.
O old ones, have you heard our cry,
our hearts are skewered and buried
in that rut not far away, beneath
rows and rows of headlights--?
One word from them might suffice
to lift the veil from the way home,
but we slip away like grains of sand,
syllables sifting through the glass.
Above the 61st parallel, the colors of Autumn mark our parting with the bees, and the last days of real warmth. I had begun to transl...
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Alexander Scriabin: the Poem of Ecstasy (English translation by Faubion Bowers) (See the original here .) Spirit, Winged with the...
There is a song clinging like a drowsy bat to the dingy ceiling of a dungeon, deep within the labyrinthine palace of my memories, a melody...
A dreamless sleep falls from the shimmering leaves. --Sappho fragment, tr. Andrew Bellon I changed, thickened, ...