partial impression of Ilya Kaminsky

translated by PLS

“homeland” is a distorted key.

I am unfamiliar with it, as with the snowflakes —

they refuse to dance in the cold blazing sun of the southern land.

your glasses and smile

remind me of a Chinese poet.

I dare not say, I know him well,

only know that he’s dead long ago

(I think he died of some kind of suffocation.)

he was trying to contain the splashing ink with words,

alleviate suffering, so that he could hold it tight.

suffering might happen

like the mysterious vibrations behind cities,

whose frequency resonates with the flapping wings of birds.

you were counting birds in the yard, and

listening to their flights with eyes —

“count me in too”

is perhaps what you would say.