Michael Keenan
Three Poems
Translations on Waking in an Italian Cemetery
Infrared afternoon,
Only a river, a washed-up
river-bride—
Sparrow, I whisper this to Kriti.
From The Seventh Circle of The Raven Hell
These days I need an icepick just to
walk to the kitchen
Writing of windows, the windows break—
Silent ballerina, again.
Translations
on Waking
in an Italian
Cemetery
Two letters to Victoria, alone
on the table, I
touch
Them, quickly, Brooklyn
Museum
