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- Poetry
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.
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- Poetry
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
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- Poetry
probably I’m unindictable,
looking at you, rising Sun,
rising over Ukmergė
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well, OK then, now tell me honestly:
in that poem,
am I beautiful?
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- Poetry
Who will mourn this tree with me?
Who will eulogize this tree?
Who will embrace its thick knotted trunk,
As it ultimately crashes down onto the hard asphalt?
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- Poetry
For all things have turned into words, tasteless, scentless,
Formless, sensationless, meaningless, even wingless.
Staying silent is all that is left then,
Or writing verses about writing poetry. As
A real poet ought to.
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- Poetry
Give me back my hands. Give me back the fields and how they tremble.
Skylark, skylark, the wind is with you. Sleep. And sails. And light.
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- Poetry
it’s not hard to detect
a counterfeit person
there’s nothing to see
when you hold him against the light
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- Poetry
she poured her beer on my head
when i tried to kiss the cross
above her low-cut dress –
i just wanted to touch my lips to
the open wound of christ on her