| . | 
 Transliteration
 I write the sounds Concord,
 New Hampshire in the Cyrillic alphabet,
 and it’s all at once no longer the city I’ve absently
 scrawled on the dotted line marked
 “Birthplace” for the last three decades.
 No, the teeming market square smells of dill,
 goats, diesel, and old lace.  The swift river,
 swollen with snowmelt, carries my grandfather’s
 barn away.  Churchbells and sirens vie
 for what caution I have left, but the syllables
 blu gluv seep through the din, and I cannot
 place the language.  What do you want from me?
 How shall I spell this, with which characters?
 Will I be struck sightless for committing
 to the written word some secret
 name of God?
 
 
 
 
											
										 
											
												
														
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