ZürichhornJill Alexander Essbaum
Treppe im Abendlicht, Spätherbst The black vast of night isn’t yet. You look to the lake. The light plays its trick. It’s the one where the woman’s sawn in two, where she goes into a swoon that intuits her stint in the sad-house. And dawn is a lousy dozen hours away. How many days will it take to undo these undue wreckings? You wrack your red, wrong worry and sieve for an answer that lives but to grieve it Look, look, look to the lake. Then leave it.
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