C’est le repose clear, not fever, not languor,
sur le, on the, l’ami, friend, Lamia, send me
more to aim at, come. Le deux extremes of
the room and the cold dream inside it. Du
foyer noir, black sun, black hearth. L’aimée.
The wreathèd vale. The entombed. Are you here?
She lies on the black water, a fantôme white.
The red-gold hair, the red-gold hair, the fleur
of the fleuve, the fleurs there. Attend the sad
air’s murmurs, the vast front of all that is bare.
Je sais, the white snow lay fair round full, black
pond. O could a river end here.
Extract the bared, fallen leaves. The cold pressed,
is enough to, la jeunesse, to have it all in sight
and just see the clear snow gently... Read more
Ebola is nightmare fuel: a biological doomsday device conspiring with our bodies to murder us in uniquely gruesome fashion. It’s also killed fewer than 2,000 people. How has a virus with such a modest body count so fiercely captured the darkest corners of our imagination?