Landscape as Language

American Poetry Review, The, Jul/Aug 2004 by Kwiatek, JoEllen

I took the funicular

to the top, almost.

A kind of dying

amplification,

like evening

but not, rode

with me. Wood

lands passed

under my feet. So

high above, I saw

their crowns, like

crocuses. The note

I was looking for

was held

repressively, as it

is in certain per

fumes until sudden heat

or cold. How

positive the cold air seemed,

removing the log from my eyes.

Caspar David Friedrich has fled the snowy city in patent leather boots. Wherefore, where to-unknown.