Selected Poems | 
“The wind dying, I find a city deserted, except for crowds of
people moving and standing.
Those standing resemble stories, like stones, coal from the
death of plants, bricks in the shape of teeth.
I begin now to write down all the places I have not been—
starting with the most distant.
I build houses that I will not inhabit.“
Sad to hear of Keith Waldrop's passing. A poet, translator, and founder of Burning Deck Press, his work means so much.
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