first layout SIGNUM MORTIS | 40.555 – october 26th
in memory of Franz Oberrauch – from Moshe, Henri and Wolf
Those Winter Sundays
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the week
day weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
by Robert Hayden
semifinalist Lange Taylor Prize – october 22nd
via AA – october 20th