Still Life by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Still Life

Page 215

The Season of Collapse

Destination

The Church

Our instruments have no way

of measuring this feeling

Can never cut below the floor

or penetrate the ceiling

In the space between our houses

some bones have been discovered

But our procession lurches on

as if we have recovered

Draconian winter unforetold

One solar day, suddenly you're old

Your little envelope just makes me feel cold

Makes destination start to unfold

Our documents are useless,

or forged beyond believing

Page forty-seven is unsigned,

I need it by this evening

In the space between our cities,

a storm is slowly forming

Something eating up our days,

I feel it every morning

Destination, destination

It's not a religion,

it's just a technique

It's just a way of making you speak

When distance and speed

have left us too weak

And destination looks kind of bleak

Our elements are burned out,

our beasts have been mistreated

I tell you it's the only way

we'll get this road completed

In the space between our bodies

the air has grown small fingers

Just one caress, you're powerless,

like all those clapped-out swingers

Destination, destination