Schwarz child
Let me sing like a ghost, boiled oranges humming into the room as burnt offering and the sea rises to meet the steam in the kitchen, as new year and death and the mountain's rebirth comes bursting, the fanned fragrance of the men from the mines along the spine and organs of Jiu-fen, the women counting the space between the blue bloom firecrackers set off to count the moments between widowhood and the appearance of redemption. Let the train crackle, let the space sway against the northern coast waves. Kite, cart, bone-glass and sea.
a more broken place, adrift in the hovering
