Excerpts from Dagmara Kraus’s gloomerang
guns in under-burn, time watched her slash sleek dreams.
time leeched her guns · under dreams was knit: slash, burn.
she: sugar bell, sheets in rain. mums drawn under the deck.
ere darker guns bunch, the saltless minders whine. unarmed,
i watch her run under sleet—guns, ass and brims held meek.
drams leeched her time. snug under ashen blurs was knit:
un-wince, mr. denier. gun at arms, she held the ark. un-bless’d.
rain hangs · under trees, she kills. dew. mud. machete burns.
get boxed. the troweled mound,
the glassed air fast to lightning. Sir Haughty,
we’ve a problem. all matteheart in
him: whale merde and roistering.
key-ferns hooting. then storms.
zoo-odor, agora. on the road to eleusis, i
zoomed in on a stray turtleshell, a marauder,
one of kore’s gang of maenad-servants—only rustic,
ages more ancient than the chalk-cliff coast
overhanging the temples, plaka’s stalls, bazaars,
tendered lavender in the deepest zoom
of any aperture—i thought: ruins, at any rate, mere
décor before meaningless blue-ground, and deleted
out of hand, all that was there, disordered
as tile-mosaic, from the chip in my japanesenikon:
kouroi torsos, stelea, temple; all brokenwinged
sphinxes, hermai, un-embellished fibulae,
the pale geometry of noses, calyx of nike,
all the shards, nine kinds of vases, attic
marriage-kareste; Priam’s treasure, heaped, and
so to speak, digitally bunkered—i swapped it all
for a grained skeletonbell, a humble
mime-drama ornament of tortoise-shell. i made
turtle-pictures, whole albums of them, sheer
huge volumes; as it shuffled unvarnished
through kerameikos’ potshards, this turtle,
fixed and dry; a saffronsootgray shieldback-
green, a strange bone in quasi-cupola
plate-arrangement; an old-athens athlete,
chitinous luck charm. a sign of growth for
my menagerie, kudus, ligers, urubus, kusus,
horseshoe bats: all my hindered dears. and still
the shell crept further, it threatened stone-mimicry
so quickly I snapped again the scaly turtlehead
as it slipped smoothly cautiously away
in its sandpapered sort of sly stone-identity:
an antique memorial, anything but tame,
not even halftame, this revenant of phryne.