Pipeline
when you step out to the balcony
suspended on the edge of the 15th floor
you reach into the air
as if you could touch it
walk across it like it was some sort of cosmos
mapped out and made familiar
and the information she held
about particles of human beings
disappearing in the embrace of another
or in absolute natural laws
you think of this then no
at this level
you no longer need oxygen
you can reach out and touch
the tail end of comets
drawing back flames to answer her questions
on the physics of things
resting on the edge of the 15th floor
feel the heat of the municipality
beneath you
the steam vents and metro stations
reaching out to grasp the air
dreams balanced on hidden wires;
all these pipelines and connections
have led us to an island
from Strasbourg (Salmon Poetry, 2010)
Terminal
cold glass lenses
watch over the room
sit in the terminal
waiting for connections
it's been years of course
and we are nowhere
nearer to the truth
when one stands up
and walks away
one unfolds a paper
and takes his place
before I call you again
I am waiting
until we both disappear
secret dark surveillance
bodies lined up
against the breezeblock
clippings of other lives
tears dried you will explore
losing fake toenails
in unknown Spanish rooms
small black screens
switch slowly into night
like sunflowers ordered
to turn to stone and sleep
or maybe in time
paint yourself from memory
no camera and no mirrors
from Strasbourg (Salmon Poetry, 2010)
Ship Street
the castle sits on top
of streams and remains
buried deep in the solid
tracts of all that time
passed since founding
since walls formed
over forgotten gold and silver
running beneath us
in underground seams
another thing undiscovered
like the bore holes
and well shafts silted over
half driven into the world
our small communications
measured in torsion
our paw prints marked
on iron railings and steps
straightened up on exit
tunnels left to fold themselves
back into the earth
from Strasbourg (Salmon Poetry, 2010)
Passing the Telegraphs
Clouds open over the line
and fires burn somewhere across the flat topography.
We are crawling through the snow like an endless hunk of metal.
When we get there I will have nothing to tell you.
Only that along the way we were seated in carriage number five,
drew breath through the door that would not shut completely
and drank beers with a girl from Peter.
Trees continue across the plain.
It is deep out there in the space between us.
A dog lay down on the platform at Tver
and maybe on kinder days was fed sausage by old ladies.
It’s harder now to look into peoples eyes
and reprimand them for having left
another living thing half dead and alone.
Bursts of daylight exhausted like neon explosions.
Night falls past the silent tapping of telegraph poles.
Having sold themselves across the Empire,
the women of the Kavkaz gather up their bags
and sit for a while beneath fluorescent lights.
Fires are burning somewhere on the flats;
we are waiting for the station to take us in.
from Lost Republics (Salmon Poetry, 2008)
Zagorsk
She sits and says a prayer in the morningthat she takes another step back from the ledge
and the birds outside on the electrical wire
sing like the choirs at Zagorsk.
She stands by the window and says it’s spring.
Minus nine might turn to minus five.
She picks the right boots to wear
and ties her hair into an imperial style.
This weather is not for everyone.
The Empire is frozen and the apartments are cold.
The birds outside on the electrical wire
pick at the air, waiting for grass to grow.
from Lost Republics (Salmon Poetry, 2008)
|
