Poetry
Autumn 1982
Hurrah for Trees!
From the Hungarian. When the Faithless One gave me the coldshoulder too, I found a hoarfrost bride,a small birch on the hilltop, and my blooddidn't go black. But my […]
Poetry
Spring 1982
The Bells Are Calling for Me
From the Hungarian. Bells, bells—worms cannot touch their lips. Bells can't be contaminated. The spasm of a stroke doesn't shake them. Coronaries don't kill them. Under sleeping stars and tolling […]