Sunday, August 17, 2014










I wasn't in this poem,
only gleaming pure pools,
a lizard's tiny eye, the wind
and the sounds of a harmonica
pressed to not my lips.

--Adam Zagajewski

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when trees as gilded as bees

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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