Skip to content

That rising curve, the fine line

between craft and magic where we

travel uphill without effort, where anticipation,

slipping into eros,

                   summons the skin. When you

say "you" with that inflection something stirs

inside the word, echo

infected with laugh. One night O., gazing at the moon

as usual, encountered K. as he was trying to outwalk

bureaucracy. Yes, they said, let's. If it is

possible to translate poetry, then,

what isn't?

Camber

Don McKay

More from
Poem of the Week

Michael Palmer

So