Six months of winter make season
a lie snow buries in evidence. A preponderance
of icy wind. We walk uphill
clutching another’s arm,
past harmless flakes, shards slick as luck.
Talk flickers, raw with it, she winces.
Clouds shift, light floods the room,
warmer voices tender a way to speak
without hearing my own voice
an instrument I still play badly.
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.