What are these crumbs
of sleep
Two hours
one
Thirty
Years War boiled down
The dark
stochastic goings on
The winter king
forgets his son
When night
will not relent
It’s always chaos
getting out the door
A fleeing burgrave
threw him in
And you are grateful
for the night
He’s safe
the winter queen
A stranger to herself
is briefly seen
Jana Prikryl’s fourth book of poems, The Channel, will be published by Faber later this year. She is the executive editor at the New York Review of Books
Illustration by Chris Riddell
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