“Oh yes, please save yourself for poetry,” / said a Libyan friend to my “I dont’want to be political— / I’m just alive” fb note.
“The little-boy body wrapped in shrouds / is now / the single certainty.”
All in all I’m a worn-out dog living between volcanic mountains / that God created for her, circling in silence / after nothing but to talk to talk to talk to talk …
“stop talking about words / talk with words / contentedly / sufficiently / fully”
“Also my mother and also me / it turns out / were pregnant // and we miscarried on the same day”
“Go, go to Auschwitz. / Maybe you’ll get a few poems out of it. “
“So whose dream are we talking of? Or perhaps we should ask for whom was the dream intended?”