A poem by Wilna Panagos
A tree full of goats.
The treasure lights of a valley city.
A dog barking into the dark.
What dream of yours is this, exalted verse? Asks Goethe, and the oblivious magician says: I’m so tired of waiting.
I’m so full of secrets.
Caution dog and whispering figs and Narcissus poeticus. Double daffodil.
A tiny tiny pavement fire by Pyro’s ghost, and Death with a French horn hanging from his hand, me, with shells in my ears.
The difference between the appearance of an object and its apparition, says Duchamp and Jillian Steinhauer says: What we allow ourselves to see in the darkness. The being of our sentences, says John Ashbery. The sadness of a man carrying his dead dog home, thinks George. Berm, she thinks. A flat strip of land, raised bank, or terrace bordering a river or canal. A path or grass strip beside a road. An artificial ridge or embankment, such as one built as a defence against tanks.
Those who throw objects at the crocodiles will be asked to retrieve them and, Please Don’t Kick The Inventory Bot.
The heartbeat on your table.