Empires
JOHN BALABAN
COPPER CANYON
PRESS
Note to the Reader
Copper Canyon Press encourages you to calibrate your settings by using the line of characters below, which optimizes the line length and character size:
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Pellentesque euismod.
Please take the time to adjust the size of the text on your viewer so that the line of characters above appears on one line, if possible.
When this text appears on one line on your device, the resulting settings will most accurately reproduce the layout of the text on the page and the line length intended by the author. Viewing the title at a higher than optimal text size or on a device too small to accommodate the lines in the text will cause the reading experience to be altered considerably; single lines of some poems will be displayed as multiple lines of text. If this occurs, the turn of the line will be marked with a shallow indent.
Thank you. We hope you enjoy these poems.
This e-book edition was created through a special grant provided by the Paul G. Allen Family Foundation. Copper Canyon Press would like to thank Constellation Digital Services for their partnership in making this e-book possible.
Contents
Christmas Eve at Washington’s Crossing
Poetry Reading by the Black Sea
Three Men Dancing on a River Shore
Remembering Elling Eide (1935–2012)
Finishing Up the Novel after Some Delay
At Nora’s House, Shepard’s Roost, Atlantic Beach, NC
Waiting for the Painter to Return
Anna Akhmatova Spends the Night on Miami Beach
Empires
Our generation has gradually learned the great art of living without security. We are prepared for anything…. There is a mysterious pleasure in retaining one’s reason and spiritual independence particularly in a period when confusion and madness are rampant.
Stefan Zweig
A FINGER
After most of the bodies were hauled away
and while the FBI and Fire Department and NYPD
were still haggling about who was in charge, as smoke cleared,
the figures in Tyvek suits came, gloved, gowned, masked,
ghostly figures searching rubble for pieces of people,
bagging, then sending the separate and commingled remains
to the temporary morgue set up on site.
This is where the snip of forefinger began its journey.
Not alone, of course, but with thousands of other bits not lost
or barged off with the tonnage for sorting at the city landfill.
A delicate tip, burnt and marked “finger, distal” and sent