10. silk debris

thoughts strangled at birth
build · each twig sheathed with ice · build
the text of silence
whose glacial moraine
parking lot and barbed wire ice

it's only these crawling wights who garner and doubt hope;
stars, serene and proud, shine softly without hope.

each solitary bird sits perched atop a pole.
if any jostle, it were only to flout hope.

flowers planted at Auschwitz in the gayest hues
fade, are replaced; their raison d'être is to shout hope

i am the song, Graywyvern says, my black smoke flies
above the shattered town; it swells; it's not about hope

sunlight on pale twigs
beyond the library glass
sparkles as they sway

my back sore from much lifting
yesterday; the steel chair cool

the hollow "kerchunk" of ice cubes
falling into a metal glass

itchy feet and thinning smiles


Roundup of Harper's keeping track. (via Metafilter) Number of days till i find time to read to the end of this: probably 10 or 15.


Why We're Here. (via Supergee)


Fangland.