for Yana Djin

In my dream a little girl
is running through walls of tall grass,
like a bird slipping out of a birdless world.
I’ve never seen her, but I know
as I know of shot larks,
the silence of her black inexplicable eyes,
these georgian solemn eyes.

Her extreme youth and absence of pain
are unusual, maybe she has simply become
what she had to be, clear as a song
and free. Nothing less,
nothing more than a string of notes
that has found its final shape
among the pointed stars.

I recall white stallions following her,
men drowning in quicksand along the way,
and in the middle of this untranslatable film,
the sensation to be left in a ruined country
to face it all alone.
Far away, her footsteps beating the land
like hundreds of thin wings.

I refuse to explain why the horses
are suddenly so angry and so white
that their teeth reflect the moon like snow.
Why her body is so slight and the Black Sea
so blue.
We’re all drowing in quicksand.
That’s why dreams are forever like home,
they watch over the mad birds in our skulls.

In summer, when the earth doesn’t feel
as dying from thirst, I sit on the porch
and write to her who witnesses birds
feeding on garbage in New York.
I write to her about that little hell of days,
a glass of wine between us.
It feels like before I never had a sister.

At this point, I wonder if a dream like that
is supportable. A dream in which she’s gone.
Each detail remains clearer than reality,
like this white stallion who bites my hand
before I wake up.

Yet nothing hurts.
His mouth is full of pearls.
Softer than feathers.

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