the laurel bronzed the brittle reins the chariot frozen in air wir sind dabei—we were here who never were anywhere 28 years and now light as a girl on a horse riding the petrified spine of the city goodbye goddess goodbye Victory Berlin, Brandenburger Tor, December 1989
Childhood Garden of Eden: the backyard with the view of the textile factory— three poplars braiding roots, a few dusty lilacs. After school I liked to stand between the trees as in a great branched basket. A neighbor knocked a crow's nest out of the tallest poplar. The birds circled and screamed for hours, two…
A. While we acknowledge the role of the footprint has been overestimated by naïve and zealous sleuths, we must note these creatures left no mark as they passed. Legend has it they lived on emotion and money unbecame them; what dwellings they may have inhabited belonged in all probability to the other segment of the…
In my long late night talks with the jailers I raised again the question of the inanimate object: Does it remain indifferent whether it's perceived or not? (I had in mind the one hidden and found posthumously While fumigating and sweeping the vacated cell.) “Like a wood-carved demon of some nightmarish species,” Said one. “In…
It's cool by the trees, by the old stone wall now pinned by stakes and wire, under the song of the mockingbird flashing its white badges at evening. Cool air sinks, and the warm I walked through, making my un- intentioned way through two gates and down a long hill now withdraws to the…
I was wearing green. Nineteen. Flat cheap light illuminates a male, twenty-one. A female virgin. Him, not. 1963. Let the light recede. Forget dark in a red Triumph, street after midnight, a girl out past the rules. Or another story: the man who lived near the lake. Peter, the lifeguard. Moon over desert. Grand movement…
March strikes the ice of the sky With its sharp pick. Light bursts through the cracks, Surges low Over the telegraph wires and empty roads. White at noon, it nestles in the reeds, A huge bird. When it spreads its claws, The webs shine in the thin mist. Darkness comes fast. Then the sky arches…
1. . . .the architect throwing his hands into the fire, the faint inscription on the tongue the invisible one, without wings, without shoes, calling out, slowing almost to a halt summaries of dust recalled in redemption, music reconstructed ceaselessly the garden full of light, a choir in itself the fleck of green in a…
Back then, we had no personalities to interfere with what we were: two sisters, two brothers. Maybe our parents really were people who walked in the world, were mean or kind, but you'd have to prove it to us. They were the keepers of money, the signers of report cards, the drivers of cars. We…
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