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The sunset’s slow catastrophe of reds
and bruised blues
leaches the land to its green and grey.
Light thins over the wood; black
colors in each notch and furrow
at the day’s closing-down.
The only sounds are bled,
and far away:
the bronchitic cough of an axe
and the lowing roar of distant chainsaws
starting and falling, like cattle
calling out to be milked.
And so I wait here, as usual,
in the crushed silence of tinder: steeped,
stepped in shadow,
under the appalling pines.
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In her new book, Danish poet Olga Ravn writes with open love, pity, and compassion for her strange yet familiar creations.
Draconian individual punishment distracts from systemic change and reinforces the cruelest and most racist system of incarceration on the planet.
Our well-being depends on a better understanding of how the logic of labor has twisted our relationship with pleasure.