My brother says You can’t eat poetry as his worn boot presses the shovel’s edge into the dry earth. He digs out the stump
Translated by Romana Iorga It’s not here, the golden arrow of the sun. The day’s dusky blades rustle in the town square—teeth rarely
it smote me, and smoked me, and stoked me till the flames rose up inside me, and to tell it truthfully, that’s how I