Notes for a Life. In a Swing. No Wind to Speak of.
The field is the mouth of the dead.
Starlings drift the summers late amber
as though a photographs gelatin silver
has come to life, and you breathe in,
you breathe outthat other world.
Your lungs are sadness, full-measured.
A faultless tension. The scarred trees
gift is silence. At the edge of hearing,
the slow rivers storyall moss and
bushslips its bridge between darkness
and darknesswhile the sky, always
the patient doppelgänger, sits on water.
Whole forests & towns & time swallowed
in ivy. One trickle of sweat beside the ear.
Somewhere a banjo, somewhere a hound.
Return to Archive
FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 42 | Fall 2013