MY BIRTH YEAR, SIXTY-THREE, THAT

infinite series of children, attached
to the hallways’ echo vault, creeping
with a stoop into the pocket

of another, unfamiliar coat, seven
full of wax with a weight inhaled
in corridors, eight

with a weight that had arisen
from urinals to heads, we had
gagarin, but gagarin

also had us, every morning the same scraping
of sleeves pursuing writing
over the benches & at noon
the clockwork of spoons, we had

table duty, milk duty, the pressure
of an empty lesson in our eyes jelly
in the ears until
it fell silent
gravity fell silent
that was the pain
in our caps

while urinating, in the protective wood
while speaking. we had
quotations: at least we held a light
up against the planet’s shadow sides
first all together & then
each of us again
silently for himself, we had

no luck. so the houses collapse
we finally become
small again &
ride back into the villages of wood, of
straw, from which we came, cracked & thin
with an echo sharpened

on the wind: we say hello to gagarin, we
have no luck, departure, back
to our villages
& departing the villages
across the fields at night...

MY BIRTH YEAR, SIXTY-THREE, THAT