I thought I was dead, she kept repeating.
Only the wrong ones paid any attention.
A policeman spotted the pile of rags
and bundled her off to the hospital.
To pay for a room in a dormitory,
she put on a uniform and knelt before shelves,
counting cans as she stacked. A sort of chant.
A reminder of an existence she could not place.
In Spring, she fingered the new-formed leaves,
and watched the curling of bark into scrolls.
One evening she opened a room-mate's book
and wept at the sight of her own name.
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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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...
Alexander Scriabin: the Poem of Ecstasy (English translation by Faubion Bowers) (See the original here .) Spirit, Winged with the...
A dreamless sleep falls from the shimmering leaves. --Sappho fragment, tr. Andrew Bellon I changed, thickened, ...