Distances

And how the moon there is different
And how the sun

Lo-lee-ta

O, Sylvia
What is your voice compared
To hers?
What is your poetry without

A Lonely Calling

Casual pictures:
People. Everywhere. They do such things
As walk differently.
And they wave their beautiful blonde hair

A Poem?

בצמ

And it's easy to confuse things like cathedral bells in an
empty city
With how big my ass has grown

Dirty Rhetoric

יביטקפסורטניא

To let loose a force that knows perfectly well what it wants
to say
And to press a hand on its fuming mouth
And to let some random words escape through the fingers.

Forgotten Russian lullabies

I wish
I could remember one of my childhood lullabies
That whispered with cold Russian winds
And sang with Jewish sadness.

Landscape

תודידב

(My legs were bare and long, and white as platinum
brushstrokes
Against the blackness of rain-covered driveway.
Cold water
Painted grey skies round my toes.

On Losing a Language

יביטקפסורטניא

those words were not written grandly
And so nothing grand is in their essence.
Now I read over them and admire them as an outsider.

Out From the Sauna on a Summer Night

עוגעג

Out from the sauna on a summer night
We stepped out to the porch to marvel at the bright
Finnish night sky. Boiling and reddened from the heat,
We stood upon the cold, soft wood with our bare feet.

Pleb

יביטקפסורטניא

Self deprecation is an art, I tell myself slyly.
I have a way of talking to myself when I write poetry
that is
Dirty and demeaning

To Finland

םיריש דמצ

On the little monitors overhead,
Two-thousand and three-hundred kilometers are displayed
For my convenience
As nothing more than ten centimeters
Of red line;