The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

March 23, 2018

the berg

oh hollow high whistle of the alps pedigreed and insurmountable,
where elephants haunted and hunted nothing but conduction. go
back, alps! return the berg to the plain, the chough to the
surly sparrow! surely a landscape of death, hannibal's hunkering
collapsed somewhere here. it's nothingness but the fierce blast
of the trumpet, culled arms called to the basin of high-pitched
battle, tubes, matter-horns! the creation of matter in dearth!
there is alps nothing, anything to the terms surrounding the
ridge of hunger. we know that cap well enough. that high hollow
whistle sound, no one to listen, the avalanche, no one there to
hear, burial, moraine.

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