8 Through a glass sharply she dwells in scarred chiaroscuro, rendered golden in her dying candle’s light. Breath swells with static, lulled by the rise and ebb of a broken radio’s whine. Broken: she cannot reach you here. Fingers impressed by cold brass as the knobs turn gently, searching out the gap to light your way back homeward. She spends her witching hours in this minute dance, in fits of ghosting voices, hollow horns, the hum and brush of strings in harmony dimming, swallowed in the static sum. Do you hear her long transmission vigil, you beyond frequencies’ reach, who live on through her restless searches in caesuras? There are no dreams for you when her bleary eyes find mercy in a softer somnolence and no one listens for your voice. AUGUR Rachel Rathbun
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy MTM4ODY=