Tihotvorenie my, my silent,
but, heavy - on fear of reasons,
where we complain about the yoke and
to whom we will tell, how are we living?
How late it is after midnight looking for glaze
moons behind a curtain lit by a match,
hand shake off the dust of madness
from the fragments of yellow bared in writing.
Like this borsop, what's thicker molasses,
don't blur there, but with someone in the knee and
at least to break in an elbow, again,
sliced chunk, quiet?
1975 – 1976