This is what was bequeathed us: This earth the beloved left And, leaving, Left to us. No Other world But this one: Willows and the river And the factory With its black smokestacks. No other shore, only this bank On which the living gather. No meaning but what we find here. No purpose but […]
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“The Book” and the Art of Poetic Provenance
The Beloved is Dead The beloved is dead. Limbs And all the body’s Miraculous parts Scattered across Egypt, Stained with dark mud. We must find them, gather Them together, bring them Into a single place As an anthologist might collect All the poems that matter Into a single book, a book Which is the body […]
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