Academic journal article Chicago Review

Closed Umbrellas

Academic journal article Chicago Review

Closed Umbrellas

Article excerpt

In closed umbrellas, rain.  The dry land doesn't take in the suspended vapors. In research institutes, ghosts measure the wonder of rain gauges.  In closed umbrellas which rooftop will now be a sieve? Which public square will now bring history to the center cage, so ancient men in rain-chain armor with sneezing swords on cough-horses can, in the absence of red, paint the square with the blood of shadows?  In closed umbrellas, sadness.  A rain with no sign, with no message offers the smell of fresh earth as a souvenir to the towering intelligence of buildings. The courts and congresses unexpectedly faint at the scent of clay and straw.  In closed umbrellas, the skin of architecture like an angry porcupine has disrupted numerical logic.  In closed umbrellas, wild clover has set out from distant plains,  and rainfed vines from surrounding hills have besieged the large city with botanical relations.          You, vegetal relations!         Farmers of clover! Agents of the night!         The peak has come to earth         to watch the rain walk over the hills;         these hills measured by uninterrupted poles         that weave drought into the water's threadbare memory.  In closed umbrellas, city gates are trampled by a crowd of tusks. … 
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