May - be a little: a day ofF, distance is horizontal (similarity is vertical), arms are cold, hands are given; water reaches us before we reach it - before we know what "it" means - after us
Will it obtain self?
That highest degree of comparison: unable to see the blind (spot), only able to see the 0ne. Am I criticized for the radio silence?
The two voids look into each other: the two children expecting their parents to die. Holes of the beholder
and so 0n
I don't want to see the order when it comes - with both hands inverted - with my face shaven - with my heart right
it's no use crying over spilt blood.
The rolling basis:
A giant I gives it back as it can - swim by the waiterfall, that dish of glasses, blinking of an eye, served well (dry day on the bottom) of the shining: natural (blind) memory, territory of the others. That left-handed signature we start reading with. A park
car of a color: I only have one chance to shift it down the hill, where - what? Another car of the same color: they will never meet anyway
any other way
try the fallen apple - toss the balls
ice of a color: I'd seen the vision before it was. They trace lights up to the line where eyes start
up that prolonged hill of red
the long ego
the old timer
the tired watch
keep me updated
I want to come back from the round trip - to the square house, to an old window by which
balls become dies
Name of a caller
We have two loves:
yours is read
mine is blue.
Name of a caller - its burdens are light - and the light is on the standing letter - I - AM the border between the twins - yesterday and tomorrow.
I see no difference
to now (I have the letter forgotten) - to be revealed as the 3d person - among the two left flats. Time files: unable to find that human shield of A child.
It speaks to, speaking with another. It rings a bell, but the circle is unfinished - the given hand's not solid.
(distracted by a falling bird, in front of a mirror class)
I have it done - bye-bicycle - I'm running from a touched foliage that's expecting me - who's touched the expected? Handmade wind follows the falling
(time fails: see no bird on the ground)
bird is a stone thrown at god
(ground is A fallen stone)
greens on my face go green
Kirill Timurovich Azernyi, born in 1990 in Sverdlovsk, USSR. Fiction writer and poet, writes and publishes works in English and in Russian. Has 2 books of prose. Participant of International Writing Program (Iowa, 2015). Since 2019, works in the sphere of electronic literature as well.
Lives in Russia.