When a stranger comes along, ill, with
a dirty foot, perhaps running
the card back again
will get you more water. A lump of sugar.
I can only read out what we
get back. I want to travel home already
the darker band between stars
the chewed console
the boar’s shadow spanning the fence-
gap. Does the bandit still watch
you everyday in the city?
When I smell that mind I want home.
West of Syktyvkar, June 26, 1986. Light aircraft.
People. People. That means the humans.
Humans cannot take away the red sky
once it is cooked. If you
take away the calling in his room,
the angels of swollen evening, the swollen
evening, you cannot then say, “I milked her there.”
Perhaps shame at the summit is fitting.
Perhaps thinking is a moon’s moon.
Perhaps the frozen coward’s bucket
will react with the piss. Ah ...