Saturday, March 9, 2013

Paul Auster / Provence: Equinox

by Paul Auster

Night-light: the bone and the breath
transparent. This journey
of proffered sky
we inhabit–a mountain
in the air that crumbles.
You alone
sleep down to the bottom
of this place,
stillborn earth, as though you could dream
far enough
to tell me of the dense, mud-reckoned seed
that burns in us,
and calm the slow, vernal agony
that labors
through the long uprooting
of stars.

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