by Sonya Taaffe | Mar 21, 2021 | Poetry
How can I acknowledge your things of whiteness
mine? Born too late for never-setting empires
by Sonya Taaffe | Jan 5, 2017 | PoetryThe Process Sonya Taaffe Kafka has gotten lost in his own adjective. Yesterday he wrote me from Zürau, but my address was censored and the envelope shook out a blue rat, the postmark in two inks dripping from its mouth like hemorrhage. All roads lead to Prague, he...