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“A meeting point for poets of all latitudes”
— VĂ­ctor Rodríguez Núñez

Joel Lane, from The Autumn Myth


Not even in dreams, the flawless
drift of pure white snow
to hold the print or the bloodstain

like a sterile agar plate, a glass slide;
even in dreams, the mark is blurred
and the snow isn't clean enough.

The evidence thaws into newsprint
and the jury are not persuaded
and the mud clinging to the streets

might contain DNA or democracy,
but no-one can make it speak.
Reality is the same, but colder.