Sublime

Before they joined the motorway she took out the poems. In the dark wake of your footsteps, my love, my love. ‘They never found his grave,’ she said. See how the hyacinths line my banks! I will leave my mouth between your legs, my soul in photographs and lilies. She would have preferred Granada. She would have liked to find the mountain road near A

The snares of the world were its ways of sin. He would fall. He had not yet fallen but he would fall silently, in an instant. Not to fall was too hard, too hard; and he felt the silent lapse of his soul, as it would be at some instant to come, falling, falling, but not yet fallen, still unfallen, but about to fall.

balalaika