[prose poem]A little genesis, please. It’s the ink, Lord. It feels like you forgot to make the ink make the words. Let it not
[prose poem]A little genesis, please. It’s the ink, Lord. It feels like you forgot to make the ink make the words. Let it not
translated from Romanian by Adam J. Sorkin and Petru Iamandi The light sends its ambassadors among the birches, forgets its fires in the roses
Picnic—We flirt and eat cake in the rain. Bad actors banter and run through fake rain. Classics’ women vanquished by weather. They faint in
