Nightfall in Irhue
after Adam Zagajewski
It falls quiet and the last light of the daymimics the peace of this worldas the retreating light snake throughthe walls of old houses, turning this villageinto a study of beauty and the lines of old age.
I have lived here once, in January,when the churches were held hostage by desert dust,said by the old catechist to be the sadness of angels.
Exile binds the legs and open the eyes,
and from the Midwest of America, alone in my room,I have imagined, in the forest reserve,a hunter letting go of his dog, allowing it to knowthe freedom of this world, before seeingthe surrender of a terrified rabbit.
Is this the poetry of small wars or of hunger?
I do not know, but the sun,…
You're reading a preview of
The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, January/February 2025