B.Z. Niditch
ON A NEW CHAIR
Someone is whispering to me
about the chaos
of intangible memory
our shadows hidden in Warsaw
by a Milosz library
near a lemony canary in its cage
as seen in the sunshine
at the edge of a wine glass
left to me by grandmother
my guitar standing in silence
near the serene reading room
waiting to be played
by a visiting exiled poet
full of suspicion
murmurs at his own fate.
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