четверг, 4 августа 2011 г.

to stick

not to live, not to breathe into the dusty snow
not to live, not to breathe into the polar mold
to feed the shrivelled wind with tears
to grab deciduous smog into the back of my head
to burn the moist brushwood under my skin
to rub the mouldering smoke into my knees

keep sticking
with hair into the clay

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