American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry

Charles Wright

The afternoon
Dissolves in my mouth,
The landscape dwindles and whispers like rice through my dry fingers.
Now twilight. Now the bereft bodies
Of those who have never risen from the dead glide down
Through the dwarf orchard
And waver like candle flames
                                                   under the peach trees and go out.

— Charles Wright, from “Georg Trakl Journal,” Xionia (Windover Press, 1990)

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