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
