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Charles Simic

The stone is a mirror which works poorly.Nothing in it but dimness. Your dimness or its dim-ness, who’s to say? In the hush your heart soundslike a black cricket. — Charles Simic, “The stone is … ,” The World Doesn’t End: Prose Poems (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1989

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Charles Simi

I made a tiny hole in the wall with a long nail so that I could watch them screw. Image is what I saw; metaphor is when my tongue caught fire. If it’s the image I wish to employ it is because I want you to stand in my my shoes and make you see… Continue reading Charles Simi

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Charles Simic

She’s pressing me gently with a hot steam iron, or she slips her hand inside me as if I were a sock that needed mending. The thread she uses is like the trickle of my blood, but the needle’s sharpness is all her own. — Charles Simic, from “She’s pressing me …,” The World Doesn’t… Continue reading Charles Simic

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Charles Simic

I like it best when we do not say a word. When we lie side by side Like two lovers after their passion is spent. Once again, day is breaking. A small bird in the trees is pouring her heart out At the miracle of the coming light. It hurts. The beauty of a night… Continue reading Charles Simic

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Charles Simic

Eyes Fastened With Pins How much death works, No one knows what a long Day he puts in. The little Wife always alone Ironing death’s laundry. The beautiful daughters Setting death’s supper table. The neighbors playing Pinochle in the backyard Or just sitting on the steps Drinking beer. Death, Meanwhile, in a strange Part of… Continue reading Charles Simic

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Charles Simic

My dearest memories are Steep stairwells In dusty buildings On dead-end streets, Where I talk to the walls And closed doors As if they understood me. Charles Simic, from “The Wooden Toy,” Poetry (October 1997). Reprinted as “The Toy” in Sixty Poems. (Mariner Books; 1 edition January 7, 2008)

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