Mastery
Across the steep field, amid grasses
twitching like blown tatters of bandage,
I saw Paul Celan dalag — hazarding a dance,
albeit weighted down by an ashen overcoat
so that his dance seemed a sort of stagger,
anguished, euphoric, exacting, adroit — as if
this halting mastery might distract or scare off
the hound of oblivion snapping at his heels.
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