Three-fifteen /1 Srpen (August)

Hearing the dark rut, the first stars forming, the wind from Jutland: a clean tongue of wind after rain.

The sudden light startles the mosquitoes. In the village it was like that.  Air [as being] water after the night rains. Thin lips intent on blood. And from the mouths of the girls of death, a warning song :
          "Don't cut the white birch in the forest
          The white birch in the forest is my body"

A book of blood in my lap. Opening this, a colophon of red: what is inscribed in

the body

waiting all day for night so day will come again.

This morning I missed the ravens. They've gone to Sweden. Their huge nests in the high thin trees empty.
Today Eli's book in the mail: old poem about love clinging to a cliff face new poem about  love that left and took the dog with it: Eli gone four months now.

Month of scythes. Mosquitoes everywhere. They say between your legs the moon looks miraculously small. So black out there it could be Christmas. In this sky even Eli is still alive.