Andrej Medved

I

Forgotten like the child, on

hills, planted with olive trees; and every morning

again, the expected, in the resonant bluish

arch, which shrinks the line between the eternity

of the sky and horizon, etched into

the hollow net of cracked clarity.  We move

towards the earth, towards the arbor road, and lean against the illusion

of the solar system; accustomed to the hedgerow

of air drops, we breathe with our eyes, into/ the orbit,

into the sheaves of sparks, into the fast flocks of birds.

I

Forgotten like the child, on

hills, planted with olive trees; and every morning

again, the expected, in the resonant bluish

arch, which shrinks the line between the eternity

of the sky and horizon, etched into

the hollow net of cracked clarity.  We move

towards the earth, towards the arbor road, and lean against the illusion

of the solar system; accustomed to the hedgerow

of air drops, we breathe with our eyes, into/ the orbit,

into the sheaves of sparks, into the fast flocks of birds.