reading it. Ice caught
in the can; later, the well. What
shall I be worried about,
the coward well and the ice does
such a lot. They know nothing
of cantilevered blown-out shells
who feed their worry
like veal barns. The dome’s aerial
my lodestar and icon, the squirrel
at dusk in the post-informational gloaming
can never not finish reading it as song.
July 9, 1979. 14:50, in clear conditions southeast of Kogalym.
Your little lamp, for example,
on the mountain sleeping all night.
I have to think about it, or
pull it out of my head. For example,
a clown goes over my face
with his claws. I have seen poorly
for so long. Raking the overgrowth
at the perimeter fence. Metal filing
shelves lashed to the chain-link gaps.
It kept the west out of the west’s mind.
It kept the Lord out of your
dress for a time.
Incident in July, Magnitogorsk, at an unknown altitude.
Because I am sleeping in love’s room
now, the moment will have
received a promise to wait.
The mountain will finally be rid of the town.
Wait a bit, and the mountain
you have not seen goes over your face –
The singing upgrades to ice
crystals of Saturn’s rings raking
the outer hull.
Hello, thing. The geodesic temple and
your dress in your mouth signalling to
the western squirrel at the gap.
Summer 1980, incident at 12:30, nearing 4000 m, Nizhneangarsk.
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