Reading Milosz

I read your poetry once more, poems written by a rich man, knowing all, and by a beggar, homeless, an emigrant, alone. You always wanted to go beyond poetry, above it, soaring, but also lower, to where our region begins, modest and timid. Sometimes your tone transforms us for a moment, we believe—truly— that every day is sacred, that poetry—how to put it? — makes life rounder, fuller, prouder, unashamed of perfect formulation. But evening arrives, I lay my book aside, and the city's ordinary din resumes— somebody coughs, someone cries and curses.