By Pavel Chichikov
Deserted, not a soul, a step, a sound –
We'd left his dwelling and our friend was gone,
Behind us, in the past – it made no sense –
It was as if we'd lost all confidence
Although the coins still jingled in our clothes
And Robin's flower in his flesh still grew
A feeling of abandonment arose –
And where was Flora? – only Jesus knew
The man of wounds, the lack of him felt keen.
And what about those wounds, what did they mean?
His stain of blood – it never ceased to flow –
And with his blood he made some bloodroot grow
My head was swimming – too much mystery –
At least, somehow, we were no longer hungry –
First we'd find sweet Flora then elude
This interloping death, this solitude
Alone we walked – the wind began to whine
And pushed the window shades, the hanging signs,
The heavy insulators on the poles –
A thrill of the uncanny touched our souls
Soon the light itself began to shift
But nothing could be seen except the lift
Of darkness in the light, in unison –
The smell and cadence of a weird battalion
Against a wall we hugged the rough concrete –
A decomposing army in the street
Crammed the thoroughfare from side to side –
But how from the invisible to hide?
‘They're on the way to somewhere,' said the child,
‘The flower feels as if the stem is pulled
Along with them.' It made us feel defiled
By this unseen battalion of ghouls
The movement in the air began to fall –
We left the false protection of the wall,
Trailed the shimmer, then by looking higher
The shuddering of loose electric wire
The Shoulder of the Sun Part Twenty-Three will be featured tomorrow.
To visit Pavel Chichikov's website click *here*
