The hills like burnt pages
Where does this door lead
Like burnt pages
Then we fall into something still called the sea
A mirrored door
And the hills covered with burnt pages
With words burned into the pages
The trees like musical instruments attempt to read
Here between idea and object
Otherwise a clear even completely clear winter day
Sometimes the least memorable lines will ring in your ears
The disappearing pages
Our bodies twisted into unnatural shapes
To exact maximize pleasure
From the view of what is in any case long gone and never was
A war might be playing itself out beyond the horizon
An argument over the future-past enacted in the present
Which is an invisible present
Neva streaming out by the casement
Piazza resculpted with bricolage
Which way will the tanks turn their guns
You ask a woman with whom you hope to make love
In this very apartment
Should time allow
What I would describe as a dark blue dress with silver threads
And an overturned lamp in the form of a swan
A cluster of birches represent negativity
Flakes of ash continue to descend
We offer a city with its name crossed out
To those who say we are burning the pages
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