He is waiting in Tunguska
barkless trees are black and white dominoes
flicked over in curving arcs
and the dark
snows hair is fisted flat
punched into the landscape
Flattened ghosts of reindeer
bury their points
no argument from them
He is waiting
for the troposphere to weaken
or our thinking to polarise
so that kill
can split the sky pull it open
like a nut
and fall on us
or a demagogue can rise up
