Vladas Braziūnas

only once, always only once illness like a flight to Bosnia via Vienna like a third rebuff first Ararat when the bottoms rule, and I leader of the bottoms a third-generation dynastic ghost and what of those circumstances, what of them cohering to a weak madness greatness expands, the walls are turning to mirrors they shined once and I alone chased the Horse God out of the house farewell, I said, and be together both in goodness: when I give – You take when I curse, You do not answer I know, you are plotting, think I’m stupid both in goodness, inseparable separation is intended or is the result of fate something that has occurred or somewhere merely gone I even have a sense what the young Bosnian is lowing what the old Bosnian is disapprovingly coughing I give my heart to you, and you some sort of equivalent near this spring you will remain or return from now on, girls, lazy and bosomy will vanish for you in a totally different paris where water stretches slowly and majestically above the flood stands hoary Ararat it means that consciousness has come full circle into your eye like a coin my torpid face has set, an image, that the time has come to leave

mountains trembled and hills quivered like large hearts rivers ran under breasts blocked by sharp stones they crackled and strained toward two-toothed Urartian mountain where a dove descended with votive gifts and prayers: mentioned in languages with our Calvarian wheels unspin our sins our Father who art a cloud after silence I stroke your gleaming cheek with a fern I grabbed Armenian sunrise for a month expanding into years and ebbing to a day, remembering Spinners remembering the circle’s footstool an empty sacrificial table you are here, father and mother spinner and unspinner approaching Table mountain

dull sleepy rivers stretch themselves, in the drizzle an alphabet of stone crosses, mirage towns, a short stretch of road, you will soon find what you need, a warning sign before the narrow monkey bridge, metal rumbles, stings your longing heart in the small mountain church, from here God is closer, among the oak trees, in electrical lines, foothill plains, and in the dead-end streets of Abundance and Scarcity as copper birds scream, your body and mine, and in the final neglect of the land we extinguish in smoky rain a cloud of white lime

wrinkled hanging crags, with trembling lips of dense-waved autumn clouds nibble mountain pines with tiny shrines just below their necks it would suffice for a bird sanctuary the flying tiny creature, in its eyes alternating rhythm a thin shirt slipped off the shoulder and through the knit patterns young breasts doesn’t move, quieted, in one’s reddish beak an olive branch pale goddess of night, afraid of the moon’s gloomy split-tongued beams blow into the marble, even the dead will heal even the two of us: they watch with seductive shy eyes sad as linden dew wild woods without clearings wild beasts chasing wild animals I feel comfortable here uninvited, not expected born - who knows, but the dead – a true wild thing the pigeon did not bring news, a falcon took its place moved the dragon in the passage, terribly home-made—from a fairy tale hands to unfold a horseshoe to hold the head’s world you will cut one off— the world will lurch and beneath the feet a stone will mold over the way blood of the fruit of the vine accidentally spills the falcon will live again as a mottled cuckoo the traveler cuckoo, dishevelled, the hunting cuckoo will land on the hard arms of the appletrees to count the years, would grasp in hooked talons fragile and hard to swallow as a scab, good, silvered already sent by their father to gather them, to pick the fallen aleliumas as they rattle turned back into blossoms, into buds of shells, into a root near the stone path nuzzles into the roots to the stone path pressed by me, inscribed with symbols and languages I was of resonant space filled with the echoings of young me and the spring from under the stones in sacred darkness beneath the vaulted sky of Gechard with one, unflickering near another cloud temple the sun suddenly rolled away overflowing with flashes of blood autumn’s speckled head with the surprised one, the general

beyond the seas it steered chips splattered through the window and that time all was clear in forest and in hedgerow the maker of puzzles played with eras, words, and things and the lightning’s roundish blade rocked through roses’ circling rings and lagoon flames whispered soft and oceans bubbled up the broad-clawed creature coughed like a boiling kettle cup and knitted his own thought into loves me loves me not will tighten the netting taut— will lift all the netting’s knots

we play wordless pigeons in the ark that has not seen light cavities all and spaces crawled through with eyes closed remains – ahead, to nothing white smoke’s decaying road in the southwest setting its sights on a blind hanging star above the waning moon’s right horn from it I will cast a net of red silk

the gods did not intervene, and Charon seized Noah’s boat and rowed in the opposite direction but the land had no end her body was great water – only to drown eyes only the tears’ drying gutter-pipe

In fact, the mirror also reflected in a wall clock with a scythe in place of the pointer hand. – from Rimvydas Šilbajoris’ letter the second-hand like Death's scythe waves alone on the back wall and infinite retrospective days are framed in the memories of friends sing under glass, apparently, sing their white teeth, moving cheeks Robinsons wave, and slowly and sluggishly in the waters Noahs wave back a rosary navel lips under the ice insubstantial to mention the flood, we survived in the proper dimensions of melomans having orbited the Earth, and now it’s slippery and the watchman now sprinkles salt the dove’s dream, sticky eyelids and happy quick-witted official writes the address on the drunken coffin