I.
by me he is euphoric, by me he is new. i have seen the country he inhabits.
for the love of vintage flatware. for the love of linen. what can i give
that hasn't been given? days
in reprise like a late-night
rerun, this love song in the flickered
glow, detergent-blue — despite the fickle pitch, we watch.
in this primitive way is the commerce continued.
II.
as we wind round the several peninsulas of our pleasure, channel flip to flip, the eye, astir, perches apoplectic as a statue. the slate and tongue-stunted gauze of turning down, down the mind: a straggling herd of vague and varied feelings stutters the fantastic landscape. Inciting interest and cupidity in alternating waves.
pretend it is a party, someone is bound to show up.
III.
there is a place we go to when we go
and we are, in a word, away. this stern, this melancholy country. The savage lonesomeness it wrangles. Each hand has clutched at the rugged crag. The watch tower ruined. The crumbling wall. The eye ranging over the boundless wastes.
the raw clime of our northern neighbor: a singular wildness, though destitute of trees. for want of coppice and hedge, there is a lesser degree of birdsong. This is to be expected. There is no lossless country.
Katie Byrum is a drinker with a writing problem. She lives in Louisville, Kentucky, where she is the intern at Sarabande Books. In her spare time, she works as many jobs as is humanly possible, listens to Iron & Wine, and hates clowns with the fire of a thousand suns.
