Moochkap
Boris Pasternak
The spirit sweats—the horizon's tobacco tinged—like thought. Windmills image a fishing village: boats and weathered nets.
The village of frozen windmills hovers like a motionless harbor. All smells of a weary stasis: nothing, nothing stirs.
The hours skip past like stones, ricochet across the shallows, not drowning, keeping afloat, tobacco tinged—like thought.
