стихи

Utu Man (41) The Past

Utu Man (41) The Past

A dead dog
darts after a stick,
but doesn't bring it back.

A dried well
takes a new pail,
but doesn't return it full.

The past is passively alert,
it listens to each sigh and word,
but the hand taken is always cold.

Faces and events
are all compressed,
like a black fist, inside your chest.

To make this fist unfold
into a seamless stream of gold

would take longer than to let
all the oceans and seas –
the tears of every continent –
through a butterfly's proboscis.


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