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Tag Archives: Mark J. Mitchell
For Herself Dust settles across the old globe with its forgotten countries—we haven’t looked up Manchutikuo for years— Still, those colors entertain us. Sunlight is filtered through broad leaves like butter, falling on a yard we don’t own. Mushrooms change … Continue reading
The gondola is heavy-laden with life, it is simple and black. —Tomas Tranströmer Sorrow Gondola No. 2 For Deborah She sits. This mirror held her mother’s face each day. Its silver stays empty now, reflecting nothing—the room, her own face. … Continue reading
A Bach fugue has the Crucifixion in it —György Kurtág You do not see him coming—his slow hands heavy with nails. His long face stays hidden beneath a black hood. His hammer’s just blunt— nothing else. You stay stretched out … Continue reading
The fog came back like it missed us, wrapping the city in pearl gray, kissing eyelashes and windows. The great red bridge became a myth, a short road to a mystery you aren’t meant to solve. Her towers poke upwards … Continue reading
The language of silence is a loose windowpane while fog licks past a wound that doesn’t bleed it is music in a lab coat waits on the other side of the street, raincoat open is chiseled with a plastic ring … Continue reading
What about the invisible wheelchair? she asked. Who drives it? Where do its wheels rest? Nowhere, child. Sit still. There are things you must pretend not to see. Is anything there now? No. So hush, child, hush. We do not … Continue reading
She revises a morning while renewing her face. She moves her eyes south and west to almost meet. With delicate impasto she traces only one corner of her curled mouth, allowing light to do her work. Then, staring at the … Continue reading
That day he gave no tours he saw a book he’d loved brightly as the forgotten girl who gave it to him. It was time he looked through it again. The storm won’t come. Birds swirl above the park, their … Continue reading