THOUGHTS ABOUT DOSTOYEVKY

Lying on the beach
with Notes in the sand
from the underground letters
of my own imaginative dark body
feeling your exiled gathering
from anemones of floating shadows,
it would be better to read you
in the winter boyish snows
or by the city's zoological gardens
or the Ural mountains
from here by the peaceful sea
in the middle of a nowhere sound
as we walk through the mud
feeling an undertow
of horseshoe crabs
when your stuttering words
suffuse with mine,
perhaps each century
a world is suddenly revealed
even as we yawn by the ocean
amid my closed body
of waters dragging to encircle
the lower depths of injury
of one who cannot tear himself
from the hot stare of terror
drowning us in our fears.