text mode CrossConnect previous next

Issue Contents
E-mail Us
   t h e    n o s e    o f    k i m    d a r b y 's    d o u b l e

--- R O N   S I L L I M A N

Canyons, paths
dug thru the snow
the walls as high as
The weight of it
when it begins to melt
& then, at sunset
still midafternoon
the temperature drops
wind over the ridge
so that by dawn
each surface
hardens into ice

Dams clog the drains to turn the window facing north into a waterfall . . .

Driving north past the mall turn, King of Prussia, past Bridgeport and the narrow brick streets of Norr'stown the road eases up, what was once country into a more purely rural suburbiana (golf course blanketed in white

A gas station that has not yet turned into a minmart

Swath cut by the powerlines right thru the old quarry, the pit filled with water is called a lake, each new townhouse with its private dock tho if you look upstairs you will discover the doors to the closets all made of vinyl

Someone in another room is singing the alphabet

Barely visible in the high slush fog mixed with rain a woman waits for her bus

The form of the flower exfoliating petals dropping away to reveal a new, further flower now red, now blue each shape a perpetual revision, this leaf thick and milky, this spiky, hard, this covered with the finest fuzz blossoms

In his dream the boy has dug a maze through the snow complex, magnificent that his parents want to dig up (At four, to identify the tension of generations

Glow threading thru the woods at night, headlights from an auto

Gamuk is kissing Ganuganuga

Resolution protocol: song of a dot matrix printer

Casting text across the listserv, I write until the first sight of sun triggers morning's hunger, voices echo elsewhere in the house

Stool in the form of a sheep, black, Dinosaur constructed from wire and beads

A pennywhistle lies on the rug

Thru the poplars just enough light to cast the first silhouette.

© crossconnect 1995-2000 |
published in association with the |
university of pennsylvania's kelly writers house |