All things counter, original, spare and strange in Khujand, Tajikistan

Not Being at Home

These wild, wild things we’re told.

Old frustrations of various dawns,

A few dreams.

Celan, writing Todesfugue, spent hours,

Days, composing his own torment.

These bamboo shoots, these nails.

A man told me once he’d been looking

For the same set of keys almost ten years.

Treasure? I guessed, a safety deposit box?

My house, he said. I can only go in

Through the window.

I sympathized.


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