by Katharine Towers
On failing to translate Nerval
Not that I had wished to meet the Widower
nor any man who calls himself the Unconsoled.
But there he was, stepping from the wreckage of his tower,
harp pressed against his dusty heart.
by Katharine Towers
On failing to translate Nerval
Not that I had wished to meet the Widower
nor any man who calls himself the Unconsoled.
But there he was, stepping from the wreckage of his tower,
harp pressed against his dusty heart.