Italy, 24 August 2016

by Mikhail Aizenberg
     translated by J. Kates

When the disturbance settled
the nature of the rock brittle
and when domes came to themselves,
having turned into pigeon shells

how salvation is not guaranteed
for the arched passage over the abyss,
and stones wait for an earthquake
humanized by uneasiness.

* * *

A word on the wind; it will not sprout until
the seed germinates in a long breath.
You say “winter” — and everything is covered in snow.
You say “war” — and you’ve guessed a sure thing.

Don’t speak like this, you’re not a mortician.
Time is the cure.  A long-range aim keeps quiet.
But word after word the noose tightens;
all from a large, see, intelligence, from that.

Soon around the corner you’ll notice — winter.
You’ll pull out the bottom drawer — earth.