Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Eleven poems

Wait, don’t take a look, come close, Sit for a while on my chest, The way a bush freezing in the steppe Squats under its humpbacked cap. Dig out a pit, talk into it, Listen with an ear, cut off the racket, Where the forest hand used to lie, Pick away the forget-me-not herb. I can’t give an answer to you, I’m sour cream, half a kilo of me. Under the thick oak lid it’s light From love that can hardly be borne.

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