Valery Kourinsky

02.20.99

WHEN IT'S TOO SCANT OF IT

 

My hope is to exist flattened myself against your life,
to get closer and closer with your realness of movements
and outlines,
to be awake with your being aware of first fly of bees
in May
and of a new stage of developing light in our heaven
that is so colored only for us, humans, and as if by us,
because we see all in a specific way,
blessed by God, made for us...
Allallowedness in boundless frame of honesty --
that is I need more than the rest of all.
Then the closeness has no hindrance for its grow
and crawls as ivy on the wall of imagination,
and blossoms brighter and brighter,
and retells our past as the freshest news.
The dry grasses are abolished
in garden of becoming nearer,
turned into two points that move
to meet each other,
but never senselessly merge,
forever continuing its go ahead,
its go everywhere,
its go heartward and soulward and mindward...
My hope is to be by the being of yours,
to breathe by the presence of yours,
to modify the seemingly unmodified by the scrutinizing
the created by our reciprocity,
to visit the ambulance station for lucky breaks
in order to save from the burns caused
by my happiness
to the rest of humanity.
And to be largely open
for everybody praising
musical depth of mind,
tuned on the best pitch of the world.
But my life has a strange property
to step in a crap,
my life is going too scant
for a person that decently plans a philister existence
till the late (desired!) death of body,
which is the only thing that succeeds to be flattened
against the wall of other flesh.
But my life is scant of somebody's long faithfulness,
scant of currency of genuine loyalty,
scant of something that is able to guard my life against
being such scant.