Poetry at Sangam



by Ulrike Almut Sandig

I’ve been told there is a place
for all vanished things, like

the old varieties of apple
clowns and gods and among

them even that good God of Manhattan
Karl-Marx-Stadt and Constantinople

Benares and Bombay and the names
of too many brown coal villages

fetch up there, I’ve been told
in the thick of the silver fir wood

that swallows every sound wave
the place is, or so I’ve been told
not marked on any kind of map.