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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2014-07-13 | | we can hear the boat growling from here as its gray forehead systematically advances across our thoughts we lose the necessary second of looking at ourselves we move the mouse to another cornea and that’s it the street light turns off, then back on it rains sometimes, at the request of the night there’s a tarp over the air – there you go! keep making love! poets say the heart has become a fist I once had stars in my blood and a drawn line I’d show you a place with my finger but I cannot find my body or anything else please, forgive me, love, please, don’t apples hit the crayons in the backpack it’s as if people would march beneath the windows in memories with every step, you hear the crickets ruff! ruff! in their language although we are neither in the park nor in the house, nor in that place we often dream of or which looks like happiness a little Translated by Daniela Zăloagă for Contemporary Literature Horizon, issue 6/2013
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