Table of Contents - Vol. VI, No. 4
Shall I say silence is exhausted and my
hands now leave scratches on its grey bottom, and other
hands too had drawn
all over it the countless ideograms
which were to be their testimony – and are
their imploded cries
It is north here, past midnight and windy;
and silence is an erosive soil.
And shall I say you are now
too exposed -
reclining on its slopes.
© Alexandra Sashe