AY VITALY,

                    

              Our trap tale traffick . no cry fodder : Ilyushin
              '76 . innocence to peace midfleshair blown; Afghan
              '85 . down comrades draining fluids in death valleys.
         What roads high tracked side café stop, our glass hour table
              company found . homemade slice shares unwrap : poll
              flag waverings miss fires in me . in you No return
              matters.

              Blink! two sip and time is up. Bit orb initials, touch 
              turn, reigniting work.

              Trucks like ours fork lift all good . the earth folds
              sorrow globe stokes warmer ~ past sea air ports here
          blend fast ~ morning unfuckingbelievable coffee ~ break
              heart land make there we leave it. 
                                                                         – W.W.

 

           

           

               

           

              

           

               A DECEMBER SNAIL

               A windless December dawn so still
                  the Earth herself seems to pause:
               you must scrutinise the horizon’s
               collaboration between two orbs
                  to realize that what seems
               a stasis is in truth as active
               as this snail sliding out of his shell
                  to settle for the next shake
                  or shade of leaf, or to turn
               his horns towards the core of the Sun,
               star always with its own horns pointing
                  beyond the self-absorption
                  of the trails of snails which give
               the Sun grooved news of Earth but keep snails
                  from becoming birds and stars.

       (from “Nor Like An Addict Would” © by Brian Chan)