This poem is taken from Stand 226, 18(2) June - August 2020.

Dmitry Blizniuk The Rainy Season
The Rainy Season

In the rainy season,
the fish deep down inside you comes to life.
A pile of rubble and sand resemble
a dead dirty lion,
its mane made of nettles seething in the ditch.
Street lights on thick stilts
plod their way through the sparkling fogs –
tall clowns hold lamps in their mouths
like pirates held their swords.
Dusk boards the city.
The days are flooded.
But I can’t swim up to your window,
which glows with soft apple light.

I can’t jump to the overhead wires.
The trees dance like black squids.
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