Issue #11


No more space in the ground
to bury the corpses. For corpses
spread like mushrooms after the rain;
the chimney bids them farewell:

the unconfined,

settles on our lips, spoils the flavour
of soups and warm bread
or sinks into the roots in fields.
Flowers may whisper their epitaph;
The flowers that grow
on the boosted pastures and grass.

The sky's lungs are full,
about to choke.

Never mind the rain.

Anna Fojtel