Summer 2001 • Vol. XXIII No. 3/4 PoetryJuly 1, 2001 |


From the Polish.    In the end tenderness what am I to do with you tenderness for stones birds and people you ought to sleep in the hand behind the eye your place is there let no one awaken you   You turn everything upside down spoil everything reduce a tragedy to a cheap love story transform a soaring flight of ideas into exclamations sobs moaning   To describe means to kill because your role is to sit in the darkness of an empty cool hall to sit in solitude as reason converses calmly fog is in the eyes of statues and down the face drops roll

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