Brooklyn

Grigory Starikovsky
translated by the author, edited by Marisa Alvarez

in the evening they cut bristled grass,
my neighbor, his shirt untucked,
is bleating out his favorite, bensonhurst blues . . .
who dreamed you up, tattered tarpaulin
of your roadways, crumbling brooklyn?

yesterday’s mail, a picture with a view
of the bay with its islets, fishing rods
whistling, catch big and small,
brooklyn, your daughters are young,
swarming on the oceanfront.

trace of the stranger’s hand on my palm,
wipe it out for good so that i don’t know
where it’s from and where it leads,
into the body shops or into the
wheezing “d” train hung in the grey sky.