Winter 2007 • Vol. XXIX No. 1 Poetry |

Untitled

From the Russian.    A white Viennese chair sets against the sea and you—time fades in the landscape's evening waves. Sculpted cheekbones in profile and a child's sand-plastered shovel. When you're here red wine flows for two, and the bitter wafts into salt air. When you're here everything's made right as the sun eats away at the beach like moths. Sunset over the sea! Tragedy's classic moment. And silently gazing out to a point, I see not you, but a color-and in it your silhouette. And this point is not an end.

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