S. Rudanskaya
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Damn of Consciousness

Damn of Consciousness

Its gray,
     cool and lazy
                            4pm embryos of winter
the birds don’t let your presence
get to them

Advents of Waking

Weeping in the plastic shards
of afternoon
there is the street below
mostly empty views
are afforded to me
the black glass
boxes almost become
faces

Discoveries

my mastiffs
of shattered rainbows
die on their bed
of moon sweat
after making love

November

people file out of the restaurant
like a funeral procession
along Sixth Avenue
as the wind bites
a little thing that stands out
from the hoards of coats

Lines in Pairs

up here, on the fifth floor
the ground is rusted canoes
of history brushing elbows
with a 21st century schizoid city

Meeting Isak in the Dark

I had a farm
in Iowa
at the foot of the disconsolate hills

I had a body
taken by insects
in a dream

Copyright © S. Rudanskaya