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Won't let your bad self.

Let go of your old debt.

Tiring of your old self.

Won't let your made bed.

Let your bad blood let.

Your grown debt get.

That grown self to sleep.

The what the fuck I meant.

In that slump long wind

 

clapping. Spitting storm

mean out my slow will. Head

a drum out the old lived.

Home won't my slow chill.

Say goodbye to me.

Or ghost off in the burning.

Cause the minute I burned it.

We were together again.

Palm pleated in the pomade.

All blue magic guarantee

of our broke-ass small pack wave.

Already too dark to see and.

That indigo shimmer shade and.

Already our old bloodied teeth

Our old flesh in a braid.

Singing my angry maybe

dad's bad pentameter way.

How I get so carsick I grieve.

Brown-bag the lowing heat.

The whole palpable Philly rides

all the way to the service.

His old value human gift.

Dust in a pine can. Six

years in the Delaware

I ain't ever getting back. No

plot. Ever safe from anyone.

Too late to help. Or stop

 

letting what I lost.

Be what I lost.

The Plot

David Bradford


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translated from the Ukrainian written by
Natalka Bilotserkivets