bow down: each is holy who has a shadow
soul or ghost: happy – lifted by death
his experience – pilgrim traveling sand
creeping on dunes – the advice of the precipice
sores don’t ache: language like flasks, the homunculus
always more depraved with the elegiac grass flute
Munk already like lukewarm tea hackneyed by epigons
having squeezed out a shout – ameliorated Leta
the skiff floats off with the oars of an elegiac distych
there, where Ararat’s high forehead does not wait
she is purchased, she is Allah’s, the invisible merchant’s
deluge is canceled – that evening tear
in the portal of evening , having stepped on the serpent, live
tribes, midnight festival’s silent reeds
bow down: each is holy who has a shadow
sinks and sinks and sinks into living sand