Susan Buret
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Untitled by Peter Schonefeld


And here i lie, a bed for feathers.

but soon realise this rest is just 

an interlude to a deeper crisis 

as my shade floats down 

to a place with


ink on white walls


   (valleys carved by clouds

   and pasted vertically into

   flat forests foretelling failure

   by tweened sheets by

   ancient lichens on igneous) and


yellow shapes


   (collecting like strings in space,

   rivers in the topography of time:

   grouping and repelling,

   opening entranceways,

   and blocking exits).


after forever, she asks,

why so sad Icarus?


i reply, “there’s no way out.”


too bad, she chides smugly,

you’ve built your own damn.

now live in it.


 - by  Peter Schonefeld