A response:
the day's short hours
shorten faster
blurred trees stand around
ready to mark time
I will be stamping my feet
on the icy ground, the great air
moving at a slower rate
through my thinning hair
claws pawing at day's last light
wild beasts stamping the gravestones
a roar felt for the first time -
beckons the darkness
the cold fist ready to snap shut
the furbelows on the great bell shiver quietly
quick, now, I must get my skates on
On 10/27/06, kasper salonen <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> here in the north city
>
> here in the north city the world grows gold.
> the wind tranquillizes us, points at a monolith
> & says
> come deep into this red house
> with your broken windows
> to set toothing bare in the frames¯
>
> pulling our lonely coats closer
> there is a note crumpled in the pocket
> next a fist:
> lines are written on it &
> small craters drawn &
> it tightens, folds like a raisin
> or an old drum.
>
> the day isn't really that cold
> the small oaks rustle & fade,
> but the note translates:
>
> zero soon zero soon
>
>
>
> KS
>
--
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