To Urania

				To I.K.

        Everything has its limit, including sorrow.
        A windowpane stalls a stare. Nor does a grill abandon
        a leaf. One may rattle the keys, gurgle down a swallow.
        Loneless cubes a man at random.
        A camel sniffs at the rail with a resentful nostril;
        a perspective cuts emptiness deep and even. 
        And what is space anyway if not the
        body's absence at every given
        point? That's why Urania's older sister Clio! 
        in daylight or with the soot-rich lantern,
        you see the globe's pate free of any bio,
        you see she hides nothing, unlike the latter. 
        There they are, blueberry-laden forests,
        rivers where the folk with bare hands catch sturgeon
        or the towns in whose soggy phone books
        you are starring no longer; father eastward surge on
        brown mountain ranges; wild mares carousing
        in tall sedge; the cheeckbones get yellower
        as they turn numerous. And still farther east, steam dreadnoughts
                                                        or cruisers,
        and the expanse grows blue like lace underwear.

translated by the author


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