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The slow and green river that winds throughthe blanched street of the Jewish Quarterkept watch over your agony.From my old tableI used to see himapproach your windows withrestless eyes. And as he…
For H. Leyvik
New York.
A white poet stood on the hundred-and-fourth floor.
The sky and an iron city
Engaged in a conversation.
A thirsty “forever” marched on
In bewildered
Disorganization.
New York…