Transported then? Trash
The city will follow you. The streets in which you pace
trace sex translated. The trails are
will be the same, you'll haunt the same familiar places,
slow without electricty
and inside those same houses you'll grow old.
without a stop-watch to pause the breathing
You'll always end up in this city. Don't bother to hope
Proskynētés: say what you are here for
for a ship, a route, to take you somewhere else; they don't exist.
Who is your object? Who are you nearing?
Just as you've destroyed your life, here in this
There are buoys off the Kayetbai,
small corner, so you've wasted it through all the world.
the pier from which we jump.
the windows binding to sweat and dehydration. And sand. I'm not sure I'd have said anything