Poetry at Sangam



When day breaks we will be off by James Byrne

That the stars could be tissue paper
or, better, coated in sugar, she says,
and points, blind, a bony forefinger
to the nowhere sky of Europe; place
displacing her, a woman suppliant,
as in Aeschylus, counting on familiars,
like friendliness. Why is it in this land
they look at me like we are strangers?