quinta-feira, 4 de novembro de 2010

New poetic discoveries: Laura Cronk

Laura Cronk


Moonscape of snow at night.
To die, to crash,

could be a crush of snow.
All softness.

I imagine, driving alone,
being enveloped by snow, crashed into, quickly.

The mice must have these visions.
Talking quietly when they can’t sleep

about tunneling in endless grain until, full of it,
completely enveloped by it, peacefully, it takes them.

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