What’s left is to play...

Poetry

What’s left is to play —
whatever.
In a white shoe
red wine,
a west wind, a shipwreck,
the bloated corpses of sailors.
Blind, irretrievable connections,
the sea sways in the graveyard
darkhaired and young.
What’s left is to forget —
whatever.

Translated by Miriam McIlfatrick


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