Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Eleven poems

On a simple office chair By the black church fence I sit with an uneven smile Right before Lent begins.

All down my thick arms and knees Heavenly birds are sitting. And they walk, they look, they crap, And they make a meek sort of racket. Why am I holding a box made Of metal and glass in my hands? So you can toss coins in it, lady, Whenever I throw you a glance. There in the temple, babes and nannies Will chew up the mystical smoke, And languid, as if out of a hot bath, They’re eager to give me some—

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