Monday, September 11
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Rushing rushing water's rumbling old hypnosis.
The river's flooding the car-graveyard, glittering
behind the masks.
I grab hold of the bridge railing.
The bridge: a large iron bird sailing past death.
 - Tomas Tranströmer
translated by Patty Crane
From the Snowmelt of '66
Bright Scythe









  • ". . . as I have said often enough, I write for myself in multiplicate,
    a not unfamiliar phenomenon on the horizon of shimmering deserts."
    - Vladimir Nabokov