. . . ambiguous stars of Tiflis!
Forgive me
this useless parabola.

Cold, thin shoulders under—* the tunnel's darkness suddenly floods the train, or at least the car I'm in, all but two lights, not enough to plug the torrent; the hands on my wristwatch stand still, frozen at a moment of boomerang-likeness. Page dog-eared, I put Voznesensky away, close my eyes.

cloudland
twilight, the moon again
distant