(from Dostoevsky’s Rogózhin to Prince Myshkin)
The spring
makes me so nervous to be lonely.
We, who are so settled into the uneven ground,
trespassing and flourishing once, perhaps.
As the train rounds the corner, it blurs on the loop,
I am watching your scene pass slower now.
Friend — where do I lay
in that boundless and wonderful line
between the real
and the imaginary?
Just the waking of a rupture
inside this young and twenty-something dream.
The ants, devouring a visible mass. The ground,
awakening like a naked eye. I can see you now,
the earth, unloving, unsped.
One notices that it was no sunset
but a place living and burning,
of fuel and fire.
Nothing like strong winds
to make us feel heavy like a stone.
We, who are so settled into the uneven ground,
betrayed once, perhaps, but still beautiful.
As the train rounds the corner, it stops on the loop,
we are watching the scenes grow larger now.
Rejoice, because you are truly loved by me
and yet that is the horror of my little heart.
Haolun Xu was born in Nanning, China. He immigrated to the United States in 1999 as a child. He was raised in central New Jersey. His writing has appeared in Electric Literature, Gulf Coast, jubilat, and more. Haolun enjoys foggy days most of all.
SPOT IMAGE CREATED BY WARINGA HUNJA
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