You don’t have to go anymore,

read to me.

You don’t have to go from the world.

 

Finally, he says, I and everything

have a limit. Count one more day out.

The case has been lost again, and again

 

the rippling cirrus glows amber-black

to the west. My undeclared cache

of pebbles and desiccated scat,

 

my Mayan counting machine, my

mai tai, and many-horned hillock.

It is, I’m afraid, a symbol, dear rubble.

 

 

 

 

1975. Komsamotsk on Amur. Incident between 3500 m and 3800 m, during descent.