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
For days together our wings keep on sprouting under the ground, in the dark; absolutely light and clear raindrops. One can see through the wings our bodies, dirty and clayish. For days together there is no rain. In scalding heat, in hunger we keep clinging to the earth. Suddenly our wings begin to sprout. Is […]
“I cry a lot because I miss people. I cry a lot because they die and I can’t stop them. They leave me—and I love them more.” —Maurice Sendak Because the spatial nature of words tends to limit themselves, and knowing full well that you will interpret every word I write with at least two […]
The dark and quiet, short-lived both, each a little hang-up, the line’s tiny death. The light stops just enough to blanket the soup bowl, the afghan’s tatters, the stopped clock, the slide of magazines to the dusty floor. As if the pause whispers departure, the assurance strong as water moving, that it all leaves for […]
