Winter 2001 • Vol. XXIII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 2001 |

Figures in Darkness

I wake in the middle of the night. My neighbor's horses have jumped the barbed wire that divides us and like shadows laid across sleep are breaking the crust of the snow with their great hooves. Tomorrow I will see the trail they opened to the country road where one of them, the mare with the hourglass blaze, is hit by a drunken driver. I hear her bones splinter, I hear her die. From the window I can see the truck still yawing on glare ice, see it fishtail into the ditch, the beam of one headlight cast into the sky: the night seems all blood and light. Perhaps it is only a dream. I go back to bed thinking about the friend who days before he killed himself told of once canoeing a dark river until he struck the phosphorescence of a bloated sheep—like a mad cloud to color the weather of his waking.

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Carried Across

By Forrest Gander

I wake in the middle of the night. My neighbor's horses have jumped the barbed wire that divides us and like shadows laid across sleep are breaking the crust of […]

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