(for Joseph Brodsky)
Birds, here, fly like your whispers.
The sky seems overdrawn with mirth.
Huts, far away, feel like undone stories.
The roads curl like eyelashes.
There are no vehicles of any sort here,
as if everyone has just arrived -
or never left.
Nobody waits for no one here.
The animals seem self-sufficient
searching something -
maybe, the word stray.
Both the suns are
dusking farewell to pupils -
the shrubs, here, weep
like dewdrops on plastic.
....
I guess I'm dreaming
although I rarely dream
or else, it seems
"It is an early evening in the town of your Memory".
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