Two Poems

Yury Milorava


scattered, it was forgotten.
it melted
the answer from the senate.
sugar would . . .
and this—capsule-chariot—
of the tyrant.
but nothing to look at
even without relief . . .

where is viscosity of honey
from in patricians’ galleries?

what has made the apiaries and cohorts doubt?
he never found out.

it’s clear; there will be much labor over nectars, heavy honey of the newcomers . . . at the settlement in Sarmatia.


he will want—and then—from that—columns under the sky will support, hold roofs, cages—
floors, nets in cradles—
someone walks impatiently, he is a stranger . . .

ars amatoria, Publuis Ovidius Naso. a feather—so that . . .
to dip love fliers in joy, life teeming—stretch—a multibodied pen,
not into vermillion.
poured into a dish.

in honeycombs. combs. combs.
frames. cassettes.
chase after someone. reach. be chased.
there—words—“to love, to give”—will be written
in towers. in rooms, in halls. on staircases, in vaults (transverse beams with birds’ nests).
someone is there.
to suffer a lot . . . honey of newcomers. honey of extraterrestrials. honey of settlers. honey of missionaries.
of honey . . . honey . . . to lose a lot. to thank . . . for painful conditions—conditioning . . .
oh fanciful stratagems—
oh stunning adorations . . .



toward the earth
and this
was revealed—

a debt up to the cover
to pay debts
up—to the cover—a tree

a candid
cone of security.
a box reaching the sky.
coating \
a box.
he will arrive
a biker. closer to the night
far ahead
there is
the tree
of his sky

he will
to the tree
and will
cradle the tree
from under
a cloud.
will send clean stuff
to the tree

although in supermarkets and will send themselves to the cash register, it’s expected! and they only valued their own.

by everyone standing there—talking into—recruiting.

biker . . .

smoke from the motor
. . . on the back wheel of the harley around the seat leather cowboy fringe communicates shreds of twilight. careless manes of lightning, playful thunder, black membranes—
in silence . . .

with the night approaching the guy will go to the center of the sky to the tree. will start his motor, steer his handlebars-light . . . though it will be released—discharges
of chrono-micro-fountains of light-splashes leafy regal dances.
and a handful,
pinches of throws—luminescence—of wings—to the abandoned—will return. in the bitterest
will be stretched. and lost curvatures—will free their victims from tangled veils.

translated from the Russian by Anna Halberstadt