It’s all of cathedral and none of bazaar,
some places confusing, some places bizarre,
with seagulls arranging the chaos of fire wings
subtracting the present from past human beings.
As the moonlight crescendo shapes into crescent
the velvet of water reflects all we spent –
beginnings and endings in confusion and glory,
distracted as ‘f living in a three-ended story
and the time stills itself, and almost reverses
while Phaeton every morning repeats and rehearses
on a run of which crystals of fire they fall –
to be captured by seagulls and used like coals –
for none’s really bizarre, none’s really confusing;
cathedrals, they stand. Then whom are we losing…?
Нули и единици
Думи малки и големи