New England Review - - Translations -

Ear­li­est mem­ory: leaves of the olive tree flut­ter­ing, the light com­ing through, then not, then through, then not—

My horo­scope ad­vises me to avail my­self of the mys­tery

—and though I've never been a be­liever, though I tie my shoes to the leg of the bed in case of fire or quake be­cause I won’t give my­self to such flame

—still I can't help watch­ing these anemones here in the tide­pool, swayed by wa­ter's whim, wav­ing their many ten­ta­cles, no di­rec­tion, no in­ten­tion—

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