by Alexander Mironov

Do not dream of living outside language,
even if the ground is so tongue – tied
that everything that falls to earth will neither
die, revive, nor stiffen in impersonal
obscurities — but reach out and extend
a senseless line through generations —
a nourishing chord between the flesh
and undead words — we are alive! —
sheer language wins us like a madhouse.
And there is no end to barrenness.

Translated from Russian by Aleksey Porvin and Tony Brinkley.

by Alexander Mironov

Addressing You,
When You in St. Peter’s Basilica
Put out a candle
Which is like the sword of pagan Saul,
So hot a candle,
nearly blind
Quick – eyed as an artificial fire
I’m thinking — am I raving or the horse
That lost You forever
Or just for some period ad infinitum,
And again — toward ending . . .
Whatever happens I promise to endeavor
And twirl the death inside
Me and address to You.

Translated from Russian by Aleksey Porvin and Tony Brinkley.

by Harvey J. Baine

barbecued emu, ostrich,
pickled chicken eggs,
wings and buffalo
tongue at the Horse Shoe
Cafe where Tammy
Wynette and Nancy
Sinatra are still on
the juke box D – l –V
O –R –C –E, Sugartown,
and Danielle’s blue – gray
painted eyes all of
Cochise County has seen.

as the streets go cool
and blurred with evening
and the earth’s slow spin
becomes visible,
holding hands, two women
lazily round a corner
under lamplight wading
through the broken music,
as two minds united by
the orange afternoon.

above Benson
at the Skywatch Inn
through battleship
glasses we watched
the swift, violent moon,
bigger than mountains rise,
and set fire to the world.

by Harvey J. Baine 

Without roses
for the acrobats
turning
on themselves
in the shape
of trees
at night mouths
open on
small spines
curved hands
lifted
muddy fingers plumb
for the center of gravity.

Gyroscope eyes
symbiotic
with the insect
song beyond
my open window
having found
all the instruments
of science
we set the spheres.

She holds on
in the rough
palms I kiss
to tastes
of other mouths
laughter is
the elliptical
edge of winds
on my way home
driving
left – handed
I count the change
left in my pockets.