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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?


Don McKay

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Poem of the Week

Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld

I, May I Rest in Peace

translated from the Hebrew written by
Yehuda Amichai