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Bobby Larsson

A door stands there and shuts. An African 
woman, marbled. By the stone wall of the 
castle. The young man going down. The 
distant cry of dragons. Brave, to find it
in the darkness. Despite the darkness. The 
small switch. The white light. Stone dripping 
with stone. Moist, moss. To touch, be touched, 
you can’t touch there. Chains, steel, ringing. 
An empty corridor, the western tower. The 
young man, climbing the stairs. She whistles in
his ear. Whispers over his mouth. Clay all over
her back



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