Peter Boyle

  • Olga Orozco
    Here are your keepsakes:this mild blight of violetsfalling uselessly on forgotten days and hours;your name,the persistent name your hand left behind on stones;the familiar tree, its sound always green...
  • Marosa
    When she was born the wolf appeared. It was a Sunday at midday –eleven thirty, brilliant light– and her mother saw through the windowpane, the pointed snout, and in its fur, spikes of frost, and screa...
  • Nowadays, anyone who feels drawn towards an apprenticeship in poetry, despite the many impediments which might dissuade them from it, whether for good or ill, can finally embark on their vocation by m...
  • Notebook of Eugenio Montejo
    The trees speak so little, you know. / They spend their entire life meditating / and moving their branches.

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