Patrick Kurth

Knife to hand

Gleams in eye

Zinced to a wonder,

Ice in the jungle,

The arctic unchisels in echelons.


Hither fingers

Pinch the wavelip

Churned of mud.

Each measure cuts

Like acid


There’s a routine to the miracle:


Sip of hope,

Tongue tastes tongue slips

Down the throat

It counts where you grow the rocks .

The pith at end is

Bitter as kelp and

A lacquer of silt.

Slurp the sucker whole

With a nip of the sea.



Patrick Kurth lives in Berlin, where he helps to run ‘Bridge’, a print and performance series featuring the work of local poets. His own writing can be read in past and forthcoming issues of Third Point, Panoply, Red Flag, Soundings East, River River, and the FU Review.