2 after Alexander Sokurov*

Whispering Pages / Spiritual Voices


The weightless will.

We laugh, we all
fall down.

Twisting
to rest
in senseless sleep.


*

The fallen faces.
I will pretend. They will fall
To water a reflection
Of water at least.


*

And that they could
fall

in reverse it is a matter

of how we find our way around

the pogramed city

convinced we
are still dreaming.


*

There is a sense
of magnitude in boots.

Boots made Infinite in
hovering.

The dead do not
intend anything,
do they?


*

While birds, seemingly matted, cross the screen, the screen, as though flip pages.

While birds, birds too heavy to be real birds, play at gravity.

A Russian novel per frame.


2.
Black cataracts
the sun
goes down in my eyes

*

Dear Afghanistan,

we see
with sepia the past
as though the same war
wasn’t always
being fought
under the same
desert sun.

Dear Russia,

a soldier sleeps
on sunless days
dreaming the milky
black of both pictures,

everything changes
because the eye persists.


*

The dust / in their eyes
profile / of a mountain / side
flat, incisive / sublime
arriving / in slow-motion
whatever “real / time” is.

*

Like icons these soldiers
the clouds which move
as they move
not above them

but as synchronous
surfaces,
angels twisted
in earthbound sleep.

*

The world,
the green
world is a tableaux

vivante or a Turner

where the clouds
break

the sun still won’t appear.

We hover above the cameras of this earth.

*composed October, '05.