Monday, August 01, 2016

st john's wort perse

Inside Hardvapour.

"...every rock in Iceland seems to have a story of its own." --Nancy Marie Brown

Robo-zine thread.


Gray rainbows in the nighttime irrigation,
immediately forgotten.
Then I hear a child carry a tune in a whisper.

I was dashing through these ashen rainbows
immediately forgotten.
You could truncate butterfly to butte

and still get migration and a cumin route.
But not camel.
Not emu. Not Tuareg. Not a Russian garlic

dome like painted clove on steppe nor geodesic
ostrich egg.
Totally forgotten, ‘til the child’s moonbow tune

whispered in what wagon, rickshaw, landau
rattled me to a carrefour.
I couldn’t tell the autumn from the drought,

crescent over Quonset hut, or put language
to the pulp that made me ill.
Inside the mouth of the water-flow monitors,

goblin goblin—robin. New World cicadas
that chant in parabolas.
A new address—a dryness—they stop. A focal chill.”

--Ange Mlinko




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