Tomas S. Butkus

so I'll finish here.

love and death start to recede,

with no location, character, plot.

only utility poles with cables,

only the ice posts overhead

and crystal splinters on the rails

fill the private pressured knowledge.

behind you there is the same heart of the horizon,

which belongs to two people at once,

almost in the same coordinate,

almost the same entourage.

bot how alien are these words.

I have grown them, being deaf,

I don't know their meanings.

when I say them I hear them buzzing.

it's a model of a dead train - 

its painted-over hammer and sickle, the logic

is looming in the museum's window.

it's the ice post snapped from the oncoming echo

in the reddish horizon, its a wedge

Translation: Edgaras Platelis, Becka Mara Mckay