Contributed By: Daniele Pantano, Georg Trakl
The field gleams white and cold.
The sky is lonely and vast.
Jackdaws circle above the pond
And hunters descend from the forest.
A silence dwells in black treetops.
A firelight flashes from the cottages.
Sometimes a sleigh rings in the distance
And slowly the gray moon climbs.
On the ridge a deer bleeds softly to death
And ravens splash in bloody gutters.
Reeds tremble yellow and tall.
Frost, smoke, a footstep in the empty grove.
Return to table of contents for Issue 2 Winter 2010
This isn’t the Wright Flyer. This is a prototype glider. Orville wears a hat since he doesn’t expect great speeds. He isn’t at all worried about a hat; he is Icarus stressing about aeronautical success and lift-to-drag coefficients. It may be white-knuckle joy to have invented the Flyer, but this isn’t that. This […]
He’s losing the lot all over again. New routines do not exist. It is mature. Everything chiseled into stone gets digitized, perhaps. Logarithms asexually inhabit the whole thing—nonplussed. The unnamable becomes ineffable as It’s damaged. We are the fabric, stitched together in storms to be torn asunder, too fast and weak for immortality. At one’s […]
Four things. All a body wants. Four things. Food. Drink. Sex. Sleep. In no particular order, seemingly all at once. A circuit of strings pulls in and out over the body’s systematic wheel, tugs up buckets from the well of when and what the body wants: the sweet glaze of butter on […]
