From ‘On Voit’ / ’Things seen’ Behind the window whose wood has been whitened (against the flies, against the ghosts) an old man is bowing his white head over a letter or
Topolalia A land made out of spillings. Here, and out of place Where no body can stand. Day by day The impossible grasp Of one’s own image The face is a confusing And
In the realm of motes (excerpt) In the same body of water the elements are less detached, the minnows drift everywhere. Wrack floats in the rippling wake of creatures. Bodies trans
The Sea You are longing for the sea. Flow and backflow, indefinitely. The immense, implacable tide. It is forgetting you exist. You are longing for this. In Italy, you spent hours
playing berlin and this is how: watch a buzzard catch a crow in the tiergarten and be overwhelmed by the cruelty and go shopping but not buy anything after all and let you stamp th
Born in Scuol in 1944, Leta Semadeni writes concise, luminous poetry in both German and the Vallader dialect of Romansh. She is equally at home in, and slightly removed from, both
It aw started long afore that. Ah kid jist as well make oot but: it aw started that wan evenin, a few days eftir the let me ootae the Joke. Boot ten in the evenin, it wis. Hawf pas
Ora pro nobis, the old man up in heaven is taking his time this year, michty me, it widna exactly be wrong if it’d snow a bit, says Paul and looks at the sky, but that donkey Sai
You traced this simple gesture with your hand: you raised it to your face, you stretched it towards my window, while I was driving: I looked, and against the hazy morning light I c
Orange Papers e con ardente affetto il sole aspetta Dante, Par., XXIII 8 This tissue paper, multi-coloured, rustling between the fingers that smoothed it, stretched it carefully, e
