More By This Poet
Cold for so long, unable to speak,
yet your mouth seems framed
on a cry, or a stifled question.
Who placed you here, and left you
to this lonely eternity of ash and ice,
and himself returned to the dust
fields, the church and the temple?
The Sweater of Vladimir Ussachevsky
Facing the wind of the avenues
one spring evening in New York,
I wore under my thin jacket
a sweater given me by the wife
of a genial Manchurian.
The warmth in that sweater changed
the indifferent city block by block.
The buildings were mountains
that fled as...