Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Between We

Smoke with its odor of mandarins and of frozen honey. The sunset lies hidden at the boundaries of autumn. The rain refuses to bow down and kneel, and so stays behind in the road, which sticks to your feet, the way windows stick to your eyes. Don’t be afraid to linger, don’t be afraid to break bread. Why is it halftime already? Weeping never departs with the person. Past the crows, into the book’s suburbs, like flames leaping from the fire, shake the fish off yourself, let them think they exist, those flakes of silence. The centaur shoots an arrow, but in hitting the target lies its failure. And Taurus contains the infinitude of the ribs of ebony Cancer, at its center, the wrist’s pulsar. Greetings – some hail the darkness, others the fire. Each who arrives remains here, often unaware of it. He is not addressed with questions, but listened to. He remains and dissolves in the air, open to all sides, toward the ocean, which does not require a name, toward all that inhabit the forest path, toward the roots of the candle on the shore of the wild rose bush, toward the snow that is wondering at the evening windows. And a gaze is more patient than the grasses, and at night, through the moon and the sea within the eyes, the sun’s rays are reflected. Waitinghasnobossandnoowner; thesearesimultaneous windows. _____

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