Sunday, June 27, 2010

Germany 4-1 England

Lutz Seiler (1963- ; trans. Andrew Shields)



In the Year One, that was

scraping on the ground, scratched up
silence &
folded by death: winter flies.

the first – a wartime fall when
things have already been
run through by a nerve, ignited by

the air. across the field, the battue
brings back the gravity
of the tracks distances

shrink & whoever
happens to be on the move vanishes
in his thoughts: you

see the fish spool men coughing in
great waves onto fragile strands. when
what merely travels scraps us, you hear

horses in the drain, clatter &
a breeze that
blows chemically up

from the sewers; you eavesdrop, bewitched, maybe
there are still magic spiders
squatting in the old radio voices, tiny, well
hidden, only
an itch in the ear
of relativity


David Harsent (1942- )



Necrophilia

No wayward promise, nothing to shake the heart,
nothing to warm to, no trace of harm or hurt,

nothing of jealousy, no risk of bliss,
the wide, white eye; the perfect parting kiss.

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