Then shall the lame man leap as a hart,
and the tongue of the dumb shall be free.
— Isaiah 35:6

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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