Walk past, they are buried. . A cloud glides over the sun’s disk.Starvation is a tall building that moves about by night—in the bedroom an elevator shaft opens, a dark rod pointing toward the interior.Flowers in the ditch. Fanfare and silence. Walk past, they are buried. .The table silver survives in giant shoals down deep where the Atlantic is black.
Midwinter
A blue light is streaming out from my clothes. Midwinter. Jingling tambourines of ice. I close my eyes. There is a soundless world there is a crack where the dead are smuggled over the border.
A Sketch from 1844
William Turner’s face is browned by weather; he’s set up his easel far off in the breaking surf. We follow the silver-green cable down into the depths.He wades out in the long shallows of death’s kingdom. A train rolls in. Come closer. Rain, rain travels over us.
