All things counter, original, spare and strange in Khujand, Tajikistan

Kafka Never Wrote a Thing

He twisted a ring out of rye grass

And bedded her down

Where the willow roots made them a bower of sorts.

If he’d known, if he’d known, if he’d known,

She’d be gone by December,

He would have changed nothing

Except the weather.

The weather had been unremarkable.

Concerning the delicate undertones of her breasts

He felt no need to say a word

So he left those stories to themselves

And never felt the wild delight of dying thirst

Drawing pages from his throat.

And no one prophesied the end

But he was happy for a moth-wing’s space

And so am I, to think him so.

But the tiger growls softly:

Perhaps the world’s fearful symmetry demands

That some must believe sex is death

So others may believe that death is union.

How else to see past flesh?

And what else is there,

But to hope that even K.

Could greet the bitter angels with a grin.

A death’s head mask perhaps

But even so.


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