Do you remember when you first heard a knock behind the ribs and thought you were mortally sick?
As if inside was a whole district of factories,
adits,
carts,
anvils,
suicides on the bridge
and white summer umbrellas over a poppy field?
It was as if you fell asleep in a subway,
rode into a depot, and there,
on the wrong side,
in a dim green light,
in large gauntlets, blind
white yeti patched holes,
twisted the screws of the props,
tightened the ropes –
one, then another.
Do you remember how you carried this to your mother?
And she, laughing, explained something about the pulse and the heart.
But it was too late. You were already a duke,
a ruler of internal countries,
a sleep caster,
a gray-haired inconspicuous hill with a small secret door.
A rare flower of interest,
coelacanth contrast,
in an impersonal
whitish environment
who brightened all color.
Over time, you get used to feel sorry for blind.
You hide your treasures, you hide:
old tales,
tales of the gods,
songs that are too many for one;
texts in which God and the stringy beat –
things that are for no one to gift.
And the syllable won’t save, and the context won’t give;
and whatever you do, you are always fantast.
Read: “escapist” – to be honest without assumptions.
It’s unlikely that all this will change even for moment,
after all, even fatally tired and with a wave of your hand,
you constantly hear how something inside you is noisy.
How the city hums with a subway, gazes with doors.
How gears, shafts and couplings spin.
And how yeti roars.