Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

FISHING VILLAGE

I mourn for the cypresses I brought from Hvar: under tiny days, like through sunglasses deficient they grow, breathing with deaf leaves as if through a button. From their horrible disease, like a thin trail of ink spilled on a newspaper, they bleed out at night over the yard wall into the moonlight. The long winter is drying out the boats down at the lake, a small church above smoking roofs looks like a fishing buoy. No one from anywhere to unlock me from the cypresses. Planted in the snow, they traipse after me with their shadows’ needles like after a vial of lavender.

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