from insomnia

by strannikov

from one horizon

across interim landscapes

thunders boom approach.


Who created our

dust knows how to collect it,

how to disperse it.


his young ambition:

leap from trenches with mortals

or die doing it.


to be fair and just

task the poors with poverties

the rich with their wealth.


soap smells tangy, but

I wouldn't eat it: scent and

nutrition diverge.


impressive shadow

because it figured in shade

just another man.


solitary strolls:

quick mistress of the alone,

Death, paces behind.


arriving for tea

only an invisible

bodiless custom.


domestic landscapes,

not seething sheathed in curled smoke,

littered in blazes.


a tired headache rests

behind dry-tired eyes, pulses

between my temples.


eyes incinerate

in its bag the salted head

the tears starved within.


the cadaver fell

all the way to the floor! then

it began crawling.


what fire will burn out

the stubborn beast flesh crept back

will burn out with tears.


strait-jacketed sleep,

repose in the padded cell,

only a vague itch.


starving men stalking

their deserted lives (maybe

the other way 'round).


what peril? grass grows,

the blue sky stays in its place:

would they change colors?


ancestors root for

posterity: should it die,

they succumb with it.