We constantly flake
– David Kinloch
Mozart wondered if there could be such a thing
As fire that did not go out, that burned you forever
In the depths of hell. Therefore, all of his music
Is built around the hope that time is finite; he tries
To see how long we can last, because we do not.
Tchaikovsky understood cholera well.
His mother died of it when he was 14.
Perhaps it was not by accident he tried
To drown in a cold Moscow river,
Then died of a glass of water.
Or did he love himself to death
Inside a stranger’s insides?
Inside of him a fistful of glitter
A Russian doll, the boss tooth,
He, the second of him, came
For night had buried the first
In waking realms of lavender and moss
Soft pillows of jet flint the unfledged part
Unfinished at the time of death.
For fire to burn you forever you must live.
The clock-tower has five faces, each with the same model of clock: white and with black letters in an old font. Each clock tells a different time. These are not the different times of different time zones, but different times pure and simple. When you look at the tower, you have no idea what time it is, what day it is. Each clock is like a one-word poem that seems to last forever.
That evening, we walked along the path. Arches of sounds formed around us and cicadas and animals howled. A light was shining between the leaves, and in response, a cathedral grew in the darkness. We walked. We slept and marveled at the disappearance of the sun behind the walls of foliage: this is a place where dusk cannot be distinguished from sunrise or dawn from sunset. It is not the blue hour, but rather a green suspension of time; of consciousness; of breathing through corners of black eyes – of bodies that do not touch until death, when all our materials are one slender river through explosions of stars. When it comes, we shall have dominion, scattered between the crackling sounds of bamboo. The sprouts grow behind us, ever taller. The noises are left behind us. But we return again, in bachelor houses.