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Poetry

The bow drops.
The baton slips from a hand.
Can one conduct trees?

In the Lacrimosa the violins
rush to set up tall trunks
in an autumn wood.

In the chancel
amber leaves flicker.

Death descends from the pulpit,
a traveling peddler
in rented garb.

The church cracks open like a jewel case.
A vaulting of needles.
Heaven a-clatter with stitching.

Someone is basting in salvation.

These notes. A forest of pins.

 

Translated from the Polish by Karen Kovacik


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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