Dry day on the plateau when everything is very dry;
    when stone is bone, butterfly is wire;

when everything has exceeded its limit,
lost its flint click in grasses,

only the brass grasses bend and twitch
    dulling clatter green

when breath goes dry;
its open mouth, drained sinkhole,

    the dune of its tongue
is a trickling slight hiss;

words have no consciousness;

    the river drills
towards its ascensions

They put her in the ground
where the white moths complicate the evening

under the trees where it is dark.
They might have murdered her.

But there is little mercy
in the syndrome of the living.

Her indented present is airless,

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN


Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences