--Dmitry Blizniuk (trans. Sergey Gerasimov)
a pine tree shines in the moonlight like a lighthouse.
the horizon, like a dead horse, lies in the violet dust,
among shards of glass, lights, and porous loafs of massive buildings.
the granite monument to a poet
looks like a swimmer chained to his starting block:
for already seventy years, he’s been jumping from it up to the sky,
always unable to overcome the gravity of the earth.
and the stars hang loosely above him, upside down,
their feet barely glued to the black and blue dome of glass.
why don’t they fall down?
why are you awake?
you are reading poetry like spells cast on no one.
and the star starts dancing in circles
like a slow drill bit.
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