Antennae to Heaven

    A pale sheet calls out

                for touch to fresh snow

A space rendered alive

                for being confined

These milk-bone forearms

Pared thin as crossbones

But viewed close enough

                    space enough

To write out in fine hand

Every dream reaching on

                                for the sky

DB Fishman, 2014













‘But eventually those feelings got attached to other songs, and those singers didn’t work as signals anymore. I remember being there once when he was playing the songs for some men he worked with, talking excitedly about the music. He didn’t realise his signals could not be heard, that the men were looking at him strangely. Or maybe he did realize but didn’t know what else to do but keep signaling. Eventually, he gave up, and there were few visitors. He was just by himself, trying to keep his secret and tender feelings alive through these same old songs.’

                                                           Mary Gaitskill, Veronica