small town in siberia

a blue light keeping us together flat on the roof it’s like

always chum

like a label from the infernal gates stuck on a medicine

bottle

it’s the calm house my friend tremble

and then the thick curved door offers old age skipping from

hour to hour on the dial

the intact collar of cutoff locomotive lamps comes down

amongst us now and again

and deflates you call this silence drinking tin roofs

herringbox gleam and my decent heart on lowly houses

more lowly more lofty more lowly upon which i would

gallop and rub my hand against the hard table with

breadcrumbs sleep oh yes if one could do that only

the train on schedule the vegetable the spectacle of the

tower of the beautiful i stay in my seat

what matter the vegetable the beautiful the newspaper what

comes after that it’s cold i’m waiting talk louder

hearts and eyes spin in my mouth

forward march

and little children in blood (is it the angel? I speak of him

approaching)

let’s run even faster

always everywhere we shall remain amidst dark windows

Tristan Tzara