Moure Reading

        Could there be a more interesting book of poems than Erin Moure’s new O Resplandor? This afternoon on the Praza da Independencia, Estrella in hand (although I set it down once in a while), let’s say no.
        With all the translating (broadly speaking) going on, any fragment of text appears as a moment of stone about to submerge in some field again (or, as Vigo Bay might say on his nautical map, as “rock which covers and uncovers”).
        As if the text is already translating at the moment of its writing, as if if this book publishes simultaneously in multiple languages, without changing editions, as if any one word operates within multiple trajectories, intersecting neighbouring trajectories just for the moment of this line, each poem a fresh heave, as if the poems are translating themselves as they’re read.
        And that’s just Part One, which delivers serious elegy content, yet so lightly rendered.
        This is a book to learn from.