Sunset comes loose from sunrise
you find a day like a hole where all the other days fell in
nightingales where you woke alone
their wings breaking petals from wet plum blossoms

Silver monads of bubbles in a mineral water rise
the island on Solaris which is a dacha in Russia
a dream of home in exile
You are too tired to care if the dream is real or not
You’re too tired to keep dreaming for long, anyway

Places where men begin to grow selfless
where time goes down on its knees before space
the bus-driver whose route this was for years
stepped out of his cab one day and shot himself beside the wheatfields
the crops which go on for hundreds of miles
the roads flat and straight for hundreds of miles
no need to deviate, nothing to deviate from
for hundreds of miles

And maybe that day he wondered
How is it possible to harvest these volumes?
Maybe he feared
the wheat was winning
Perhaps he saw at last
all the farmers overwhelmed by their own grain

Motel monogatari, yes, the gassy host in green lamé
Tales of John Doe, Tales of the Entirely Expected
a beer at the bar with complimentary matchbook
Junk TV, x number of channels
a suitcase with passport schedules timetables
Eventually everywhere turns into a small town
On the bathroom floor in talc footprints of a passing stranger
All the small towns are islands
All the moments grow seas

You have lost so much, you begin to forget what you’ve lost
so you lose it twice over
If you could lose everything
maybe you could begin again?

A scent of aviation fuel the heat of the tropics
your heart is a plane and it beats
the sky or the runway
If you could believe in somewhere maybe you could find yourself?
If you could believe in yourself, maybe you could stay
until the morning?

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