I tried all afternoon
To translate a poem
Something about a silver toothpick
And a gathering
Of metaphysicians
All of this so long ago
When shadows were thought
To have certain qualities
Of the soul—
There was no idle talk
In all of Greece.
Beside me
A rose
In a glass beaker
And a cold cup
Of Russian tea.
A shadow falls over your hands
Late at night
As the meal ends.
On the edge of death
One thinks
Of teeth.
I find much stillness and calm here this morning, reading your poetry. Thank you for that. I am otherwise so filled with anger and dread that I hardly know what to do.
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