there is a road that leads to birches,
pocked with dark puddles and tank tracks,
above which no white dove perches.
Green men pray to another Christ,
a Fulcrum falling overhead,
a saviour or a poltergeist,
the sun behind it, fierce and red.
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Lost in your catacombs, I’ve uncovered
by the infidels above, I’ll neverleave the ensconcing darkness. I’m stranded—here, lukewarm and famishing for real food,the kind that Origin, that Eunuch, sayswill hoist my shackled soul out of the bruteprison of my body. Here, dark are my days,but what slight light there is, is oh so bright.I’ve befriended forgotten patriarchs,(those modest moles who’ve found…
Petalled with rust beneath a sky of slag,
Below it, the meaning of all my days:thistled lots, brambled voids where time lagsoblivious to the maimed and forgotten.My eyes sink in their vision: flocks of crows,torrents of black water, flapping shadowsover tawny fields in endless autumn…On the bridge, wasting bad time, I’d shed tears,but have no regrets, only old ironies,black insect prayers that cannot…
Though many years have passed, and loves, I swear
I can still see the mole on her left thigh,black eden lace against her northern skin.And I recall the thong straps she would wear,the camisoles and fishnets she would choose,brown archipelago in her blue eye,and how she opened doors and let me in.My lover in her room—a universeof small particulars: the way she moaned,the way…
Under swooning clouds
of a puddle after rain.And, as if in a dream,you see yourself reflectedin the wavelets, windblowing locks of hairas you reach down, though pinnedyourself against the bottom,which is heaven or hell,depending on your pointof view, or just a well.
Eight-hundred years have passed
their faces scalded, a fireball castupon their backs, their callsunheeded by mute Tengri,their father in the sky.Yet they fled with the head of Henry,maids in each slanted eye.Now with tanks they return,surrounding Festung Breslau.Townhouses collapse, and streetcars burn.The Khazar lays down his law.Pity the carrion,the corpses on balconies,the ruins unwoken by the sun,the mother on…
The body is a bag of blood and bones
Time, space and matter mid the mossy stones,in the eye of the cosmos, need not wait.Deitas is the Lord, the architect,glanced at through plankton in the aeon-old sea,through the portholes of sunken longships, wreckedmid red sea whips, blue kelp and blue-green algae.