Valery Kourinsky

02.27.99

WE SOMETHING MAY PERPETUATE

 

You tell: worm-hole...
And I imagine apple, summer, wound
that goes through the destiny of yours
and through the all of mine.
And I imagine lights of galaxies
that time had formed as leaves of wormwood there,
in farness of the first beginning, there,
in nearness of everybody and of something
that shimmered so much increasing beam shine
lulled by a suns in hundreds , thousands eyes --
such notes prescribed me Doctor Being...

Oh, bitterness, oh, irony, oh tears,
which are the tool much more than the event1
Oh, slightliness that turns out suddenly to be
the thunderbolt,
simplicity that is a shell for cosmos,
debate that is caressing you,
view which is a blindness,
and boundaries that are lost in infinity,
the nothingness of while
becoming main in times,
becoming everbearing branch
of tree which name is imperishability.
And else --
we worm to truth.
We crawl by ourselves to barbarous whipmaster
of ideals and wait for strokes of a next undeceivedness
But every fresh discovery is a plum
charged with embryos of wormhole,
and doomed to be spoiled after joy,
delivered on the leaf-tray by the holiday.

I crush the grapes of previous understanding,
but for the sake of it, --
it will be lasting wine
without caverns that were left
by
guzzling grubs of wormy mob of those
who is already satisfied with senses.
I heard the wine we may perpetuate.