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A weekly poem, read by the author.
April 11 2006 6:04 AM


Click here to listen to Paul Breslin read this poem.

Four squat dolmens; flints Where you wanted eyes.

You'll find no village—
They've driven the neighbors out.


With hoarded tears
They've salted the plain

Sterile to flowers
And fruit-bearing trees.

Among their bequests:
A sealed box, dense

As a brick of osmium,
Placed on the chest in sleep

As a charm against nightmare.
(It asphyxiates dreams.)

Paul Breslin is the author of You Are Here, and with Rachel Ney, a forthcoming translation of Aimé Césaire’s play, La Tragédie du roi Christophe. He teaches at Northwestern University.