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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 7, Number 2, June 2013


Mark E. Smith
Frostburg, Maryland, USA

In Whiteness

What does the unfinished poem do when I put down ink, walk into the garden of good sunset?

What does it do when I wrestle in the chair, watch as I leave the lamp flicker faint on the nightstand?

What happens, happens in an act of lonely wanting: the pages blown from shadows on the desk.

It happens in the reaching out to anything: thin pile of pagination curling crisp from chilled night.

It’s why I die each night in whiteness, why words wander like wood smoke through memory, rattling trees.

foggy dawn—
drawn to the short lifeline
on my palm



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