A winter light creeps in. The form of the pink Sun
just above the rooftops.
Bacteria are forgotten.
Olivier is dead.
It is atrocious.
Olivier aka Pronto Rushtonsky is dead.
The police report finding him, his arm broken, at 22 hundred 20
25 October nineteen ninety one,
that he lay inert next to the train tracks
at the Quai de la Gare
his arms forming a cross.
That is all the police have to say. They want to see.
Olive branches come to mind.
The first state is absence.
[From Venezia Central by F.J. Ossang, Le Castor Astral, 2015. Pronto adapted into English by Anon]
This is an ode.
An ode to Pronto Rushtonsky.
Rather vague an ode is. It is a color,
the wavelength of a color washing up on the river shore
where ash coats gray and green water.
The faint smell of odors and smoke that stretches
from the Sun as it sets.
The lapping waves that surround a burial boat
as it heads toward the black bow
of haunted ships.
But I shall tell, tell all finally,
the desire and the regret of sleeping in the light
so bright where all is extinguished.
Pronto, pronto, he said.
We shall see Olivier no more.
We look at the light. It is the 26th, four p.m.
[To be continued.]