a new european dark age || “She called it the low. It was the great constant in her life.”
she wrote: I don’t think it’s the trip that’s making me low, I was just low before I came.
some months later, someone you don’t know wrote: I’ve been feeling really low the last couple of months and I’m not sure going away by myself was the best decision. Out there it was just an extension of how I felt already and without my buffers I felt it more acutely.
and now me, I felt the same way too when I went away in June. Listless. Unanchored. Lo(w).
and every February, every “last autumn,” you write far from the threshing harvesters folding wheat like a girl plaiting her hair, far from Russia’s canals quivering with sunstroke, a man living with English in one room.
Who is that dark child on the parapets of Europe, watching the evening river mint its sovereigns stamped with power, not with poets, the Thames and the Neva rustling like banknotes, then, black on gold, the Hudson’s silhouettes?
From frozen Neva to the Hudson pours, under the airport domes, the echoing stations, the tributary of emigrants whom exile has made as classless as the common cold, citizens of a language that is now yours