In the latest issue:

Loathed by Huysmans

Julian Barnes

Too early or too late?

David Runciman

Short Cuts: Five Victorian Marriages

Tom Crewe

Society as a Broadband Network

William Davies

Indefinite Lent

Thomas Jones

In 1348

James Meek

The House of York

John Guy

At the Movies: Pasolini’s ‘Teorema’

Michael Wood

Secrets are like sex

Neal Ascherson

Poem: ‘The Bannisters’

Paul Muldoon

Clarice Lispector

Rivka Galchen

Marius Petipa

Simon Morrison

At the Foundling Museum: ‘Portraying Pregnancy’

Joanne O’Leary

Caroline Gordon v. Flannery O’Connor

Rupert Thomson

Revism

Joe Dunthorne

Poem: ‘The Reach of the Sea’

Maureen N. McLane

Diary: Where water used to be

Rosa Lyster

How to set up an ICU

Lana Spawls

Two PoemsSean Borodale
Close
Close

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,
mothless

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