Sky-head dashing through Chelyabinsk

distant intimate,

tumble yourself out shattering

glassy fears, we know no other.

Life has always looked set

to begin tomorrow, its ancientness

burns now the motorways and blasts out

windows and boils the ice under which you lay

so your corpse comes up like an apple.
With a name writ in water

with eyes clear to water transitional

species appearing to watch

your own appearance, your eel nature

that loves to hide

pinks up and comes wired with songs.
You give names to the unknown future,

make its fashions specific.  If you keep

these almonds for eyes, will the rain glaze

with universal justice your membranous head.

Will you retain yourself in safety

if your crushing or exhaustion

is the black hole of thought, will you scatter

your radiant occult sugars

over a world quivering momentarily with peace?
Will you keep the nutty heat of the sacred

in your thumb-sized heart.

We page-turn for you forever,

because life is actually very stupid,

because we bide your admiration stupidly,

in proverbs, in grand precise speeches,

in flashes better than this
shows the limits of my power:

a limit lying alongside you through our intimately broken

night, like the silver horizon of waters

of promises whose writ you are the name