1
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1
The river is
the iron eye.
The mineral
cerulean pupil is
the shard of a float.
From under the hovering
lid of the tempest
the sun's trickled down,
a sulphuric
tear.
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2
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,
,
,
,
.
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2
The rag of the scuffed sky is
the flappy pocket.
The birds are like tacks
of torn seams,
like a handful of pennies
that fall through the tears,
the birds' eyes reflecting
in the rusted through river.
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3
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3
An even body of warmth.
A solid tranquility.
The sun eats the muck
of spoilt fruit off the soil.
The apples' thin scaffold
is smashed into dust.
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4
,
,
.
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4
Once raised,
the shoulder of summer is cramped
with the juices of rains
and the warmth trickles down
all along its fallen sleeve
of the stalky light.
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5
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.
Ÿ
,
.
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5
The stone is falling.
The wind from the north
drives a gull to the
waves.
And its voice
fearsomely ruffles
the scales of
sickly fishes
and the water flows on.
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6
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̸
.
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6
Torn out is the eye of the clouds
with the blue charge of pain.
The rain slumps down
like some dead sludge
along the earthy cheeks
from the crippled sky's eyepit.
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7
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;
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:
, ,
,
.
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7
The smooth dust spreads even.
The flat corpse of water.
The apple smell glides;
the trees are in travail.
The water flows over.
Bedsores on the river.
The bad water's skin:
the ripples, the bruises of buoys,
and over the water's breast
the apples like greenish
faces of children who drowned themselves.
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