Emma Lundenmark

Why not try for yourself master among polecats to alone become a sea on a beach
why not disenvelop all the formulas in shoes and pockets in hems
why not clamber up among circles reminiscent of space
into nests above the noise of a land marketing its appearances
inviting you to its buoy
line


line
Movements silk-thin a room without edges

waving in the windows am I movements silk-thin in tunnels around my foot
a hip without a window eyelids silk-heavy do you remember the colour of falling
asleep tired in daytime

marching out with my dreams nonplussed wide-eyed with silk-heavy steps

running into each dusk
as we have run over the roofs
as we have run through the waves on the pier
where silk soars the deepest

the silk-deep sand
each smell has a sea in its shell

each stone remembers its wall
each deciduous tree carries the cause of the fugitive
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line
Like a llama with ears of silver sapphires instead of a neck and with the words
folded in wings and outstretched hooves on the prowl

I cherish a dream of a sea

in soft trailing steps through shrill layers of colours like days sorted on time

I have held my fingers in my nape a lukewarm straining against peace

laid the starved passenger to sleep as if we’ve never spoken about the journey’s
destination

a quiet reception in the morning

with drawing-charcoal around the windows and the birds from a world beneath,
as if all other language had been spoken

you blind shroud in a tangled cage as if everything else was being worn by feathers
line


line
There is a warm route breaking off from the caps of icy flagstones Falling in is
meeting your skin and feeling the rest fading out

withdraws its land and we are at sea ourselves in the storm we stir up

I feel you when you look at me at my loneliest I lust for you
that you know before I know that you see me
weaving me closer to the abyss that is me

Falling is falling warmly
in the land that disenvelops in your smell of lion skin and double wingbeats of
barren metal, concrete and rust

You are weaving me around your finger
my web of skeins resembles yours
and the railroad bank that we persist in breaking

is to hang freely without dizzyness one more time

Translated by Mattias Forshage

Issue 4 Table of Contents

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