Amnesiac Jane Griffiths The night fogs come down. The known edge of the world unselved, the white-out against the window and the radio histing the full atmospheric scale between stations comprehensively out of tune. Someones talking out there but the night fogs come down: a car comes and goes out of nowhere, lighting the invisible and its afterglow. Off, theres a town: its solids, its muted soundings below the sudden broadsides and dark enormity of the nightlife, the near miss of the eyes, below the rough selvage of road or cloud where you are seeing the wood through the trees the fog has made ragged, open-ended. Somewhere in your house there is a forest. Someone is talking there.
Posted on: Fri, 21 Mar 2014 14:43:09 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015