when the wind rises from the north and sweeps into the clean cold dark behind my eyes the roots I held to just a moment before buckle up, leaving me no other choice but to curl up between their rough ugly toes and fall asleep there, as if I were a ghost-shape leaf-bones waiting for winter’s kiss
Susan Kelly-DeWitt | Mandelstam in the Transit Camp Contents | Mudlark No. 46 (2012)