
Top of the World. Andre Petterson
Let us go then you and I let us bleed then you and I shall we go then you and I shall we move then you and I they do not move they do not leave they do not run they do not scream then shall we run then shall we spread ourselves out against the television sky where the evening lifts like a ski soft caress of a hill like a saint spread out against the summer sky shall I compare thee to a summer chaos spread out against the teaming lands and the thorned fields with the old sublime prophets wringing lilies from the acorn will you lift your head in wonder at the naked generations at the sick men making magic with their humble tools and their chance at the yellow smoke at the window panes at the weak men making magic out of something underneath the self-same sky, for I am sick of love will you run after me your love better than wine embrace me, your hand under my head shall I say shall I shake the darling buds of may shall I by chance or nature’s changing course unaffected by the Muses’ diadem shall we dance like the classics in paraphrase? I am a worthless boat my ancestors bequeathed me no wide estates to which I shall go no rich blessed keys no sense of no no derangement that could outlast the blessed little moment when I consider everything a perfection held in a little moment hollow made yet reverberating like stars in secret blood pacts against this sullied night I engraft for you something new for here and for there and for which we do not move