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Mark Rudman



Threnodies of childhood. Hatch a nut, inhabit the boxcar detached from all the others on a rusted track where at erratic intervals something moves as on an empty Sunday bent over fragments of a model airplane, navigator grizzled, biting so hard [...]

The Black Dove

1 That summer it was the castoff hundred pounds of Idaho reds sizzled in Crisco, salt a mainline luxury, it was a repetitious dry tickle in the throat numb to water, our armpits smelling of rotten apples, your belly swelling with the child I'd plante [...]



Autumn 1978 | Poetry

How can we slow time down? How can we shed rot, Raspad? Sleepless nights on the Volga coast unleash miracles. Where the eye relied on the droughty steppe for mercy, there, in swirling mist, the haystack of revolution rises. In distant granaries a [...]