non limit, or
it can go round again. No
earth. No lost limit. All
the children love their limits
more than their fathers.
Should this shame us again?
I can smell your mind.
I enhance the quotient of suffering
by building pictures of forced concord.
Again in high winds, 18:33, August 1975, altitude unrecorded at time of incident. Inta (tower).
You don’t have to go anymore,
read to me.
You don’t have to go from the world.
Finally, he says, I and everything
have a limit. Count one more day out.
The case has been lost again, and again
the rippling cirrus glows amber-black
to the west. My undeclared cache
of pebbles and desiccated scat,
my Mayan counting machine, my
mai tai, and many-horned hillock.
It is, I’m afraid, a symbol, dear rubble.
1975. Komsamotsk on Amur. Incident between 3500 m and 3800 m, during descent.
I am practising dead songs and
then they will be printed and
we’ll get Heaven – get money.
When it eats, the soul is of no interest to me.
What is in it, ice? While what
happened to soft difference in school is horrible,
it wants to eat. There will be no shaking
the thorns from the stem. There
will be no clarification.
The ballooning complex left
it a shambles. Security. Think of a weaving
barn. Think of a good reason not to quit listening.
August 15, 1976, 17:55, aircraft approaching Krasnokamansk. Altitude unreported.
Suppose the weirdest bed is between
Heaven and Earth, and school
roams days between
ice and practising songs.
We’ll be of no interest
to the dead. Whether the dead Lord
with the red-hot iron shoes lay
for us once is of no interest
to the books.
We chaptered over our clothing
in the common sink, never lifting
our gaze. I’ve a miner’s lamp, no fire.
August 22, 1976, at 17:40. Khatanga.
Don’t write to her. Perhaps she’ll love
you separated more.
‘On the fifth, because I will be
like your dress.’ Sometimes nobody
gives a mind in their head
the whole journey. We are not separated,
we are beforehand. Catkins, then burrs.
The lamp switched on prior to the journey
by throwing a switch at the dome’s posterior.
Grinding of teeth under the chestnut
on Etna. It’s as though
the summit invites a downgrade. Bark death.
Krosnayorsk. Light rain.
Eleven years of green bread still
nobody, dear Lord, isn’t oneself,
but thank you. Isn’t that right? Give them a picture
of no bread, a mean flower more bush
than the love in their heads, a picture
of will separated from matter and head stuff.
The green being flensed, combed out, rehashed –
chesnut? beech? A severe
grade, the cobbles and brick fragments boiling
through topsoil. Night hikes up here
and chases out shreds, Finnish wind. A fragile
lantern tarp rags are whipping at.
Kemerovo, August 28, 1978, at 15:30, altitude 3900 m.
A girl said I should eat. Well, am I
such a coward inside? Regarding winter,
other children bit you, you were after interests.
Inside, one knows everything, but
how does the house see? It is
totally unwindowed!
The rustling in the approach
as the wing lights climb. I distinguish
that from those without reason
so count old rivets, voltage, then fall back
into shadow. How does she know
everything to be unwindowed?
