Painting by Vladimir Volegov
The Beauty Out This Window
The river is my companion, my sex,
the old bridge that the dirty self
crosses over. I walk along
in the cold evening, my heart
the big city, is a belt buckle,
loosening. See the high clock
counting the time, drift here
and there with the strangers.
The music, the bands, and the
absolute distance I feel from
everything I was yesterday--
but have to get back to now
to live. I smell my fingertips.
I kneel on the imaginative earth.
A bell rings through me.
If everything is always clean
there is always the heat along
her back. The sweat down the center.
Well, this lane or not.
And soon we find our way.
We dream of strangeness
and foreign voices, but the train
whistle loves to announce the soul's
home station. How gentle sanity waits
there in her white gown.
Blood-clean and transparent.
I guess I'll go off and get dressed
now. Fix up the mirrors,
glossy truth, clarify my intentions.
Empty the beautiful dust of one's
pockets into the flowing river.
And here comes the key that
doesn't fit; placed into the
chamber you allow me,
I put it.
Barry Tagrin
from "Collage of the Soul"
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