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reflections on belonging

a palmers chronicle right bw

Graphic Novels

Photo by Remis Ščerbauskas
Homes fill with vases sputtering marigold orange
As days grow shorter, there is nothing to be done –
The young men sing, titmice twitter over graves
And the shells of urns fill up with your friends

Photo by Laura Vansevičienė
I’ve been learning how to be human from the rain
from the southern wind
and from the fog
that beautiful fog
in the grasses along the shore

Photo by Monika Stankaitytė
so what’s the worry? impossible, i say
time does not think about that.
the river flows under your bridge,
the police are almost on vacation,
god rides a spaceship from mars.

Photo by Dainius Dirgėla
Descartes and I did not exactly chime,
but loved ones denied me many times
like some proof insufficient for belief.

Personal archive photo
my muscles will ache and I'll remember what it means to dream
those gentle slow days
smeared in unctuous dreams

Photo by Sherwin Bitsui
Once I had a compass, a tailwind, a cross breeze
but now my home is empty-handed except for me.

Only when the sun goes down and the audience
returns to its own element, sated and benign in its
dream of me, do I have a chance for mine.

Photo by Edita Grėbliūnaitė
the people all asleep
and streets and squares have grown quiet
in the mobile cranes of words
in the ship-holds of poems
in a baltic mouth breathing
the northern lights’ cold

probably I’m unindictable,
looking at you, rising Sun,
rising over Ukmergė

Photo by Milda Kiaušaitė
well, OK then, now tell me honestly:
in that poem,
am I beautiful?

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