Stanley Pelter


a railing beside the stream: he who can grasp me, let him grasp me! i

am not, however, your crutch.”¹

single sound

even shore intimacies

are disturbed


mountain shadows. sucked through slipstreams they spread over a

hushed sea. edges of waves unravel to filter into lines that unfold.

soon they redistribute as surfing spots of light. high peaks merge. they

travel along a green orange streaked sky. remnants of ragged dusk

sunlight. an uncertain sighting along the skyline.

a shape it seems to appear for just a moment

almost a silhouette. blurred it alters an already erratic horizon. dark

stag head rises. mouth opens wide. Calls. a sound unique. deeply

raucous. gravelly. trombone-like penetration. stratified crags seem to

crumble. gannet edged caves echo pushed air. osprey nerves tingle.

air waves resonate. inside blades of grass wind ossifies. shadows

gravitate toward sharp purposes. a thrust searches deep into another

magi colour discord. more echoes. snips of time. noises from unseen

rivers move away. banal is safe. dull is warm. starlight dulls. harsh

tones impinge. wide-spread angles expand into an incoming storm.

knifes through marrowbone cold. squashed wave edge sounds begin

to unravel a stags language, a mountains illogical shadow. erased

silence unravels much best left hidden.

rare noise unfolds night of wishes documents an awe filled sound

again The Call. again. again skin shimmers.

another darkness

a strange Call reverberates

in prised open glands



¹ Thus Spoke Zarathustra  Friedrich Nietzsche