Beneath this city, lies a city, nine stone repetitions of the Rise and Fall in vertical complexity. One wall, its roots in layer one, depicts the line of ancestries. Nine masons hewed a vine of stone which bloomed nine times. Each blooming, small in minutes, is repeated, and appalling centuries of stone leave us their…
It is Because I am Obsessed with This thing. . . . It overtakes me. Do I conjure it Out of space, Scratching its Sound on paper In the tilted gazebo? I only know I Do hear it — there. I am brushed by The precise flit Of its shadow, Enervated by Each visitation. Like…
We trace ourselves in order to omit the tracery tense unfolding a flesh offering a limit We travel the ellipse of ourselves each inhabited One inside the other limitless warm surface & not wanting knowing the limit tracing the arrival We come together One orb One & One We fold together unfolding rhythm of our…
A frog thuds for attention, a scream jammed in its gullet. The night spins a dream of sparks from her pillow, lifting her till her toes drop from the hammock where she’s nodded from the sun all day under a maple full of ladybugs and hornets. Now she tips from repose and spits sleep into…
Warders in familiar uniforms, peaked caps, and badges– greying family men–tag and number these articles out of the prisoner’s hand-sewn, pig-skin bag: Two sweaters of hanks and hanks of hair, hand- spun and knitted–blonde into black, red into brown– völkische patterns; three pearl-grey chemises with tongue-like ties; one austere silk foulard from Paris, the couturier…
Much earlier I rose, committed myself to waiting for the mailman the milkman the ghost of the man at the open skylight the sky blue, gray a certain visitor at the door making unreasonable demands Get up eat breakfast at dawn the windows stay closed today Dark blue till afternoon Someone comes anyway, a friend…
she had a nice way of swimming brilliant but awkward boobies bobbling it was her one redeeming feature she introduced him to many things which cost a lot of money
After Verlaine In the endless anxieties of the plain the uncertain snow shines as sand. Of copper is the sky, without one light. One would believe any moon, seen living and dying. As some storm clouds hover infirm and grey, the oaks of close-lying forests are among the vapours. Of copper is the sky, without…
In the country perhaps some rooster or another crows on Monday morning (the 15th? the 22nd?) This particular sound reminds me that I haven’t changed my pants since Monday Between the rising and the setting of the sun I’ve forgotten my old friends. translated by George Kimball
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