В дорогах не сходятся

We don’t happen to meet in the street
— the roads arrange us to meet.
They hug us, and love us in dust.
Throwing up their hands, they are trailingl through
sunflower lands
or the glistening crops of the ryes.

The bridges, on thick and strong cables,
Reared up, like four horses in flames.
A cobble to cobble will tightly fit in,
Into diaries randomly words dropping in.

The eyes will look fully mature.
Into smoke will be dipped
the interlaced cluster of joints and wrists.
Has the dragon calmed down outward,
you don’t know,
who and how long for,
permanent or… a guest, nothing more…

The shop window is lighted, and the train
is repeatedly beating the drum brakes in vain.
Someone is steering, some…
oversteering.
The stub is being steered along the platform.
The tray –
with a glass-holder,
tea, and some sugar,
And the train horn’s or nightingale’s rhythmical trill…
I won’t finish my cigarette,
and won’t say good-byes,
it’s just you and me, but three pairs of eyes …

So, the light one and delicate looking takes to flight quickly off,
Sliding through fingers, OOOOOh, the gentle breeze blowings.
No fear — to crash, not too late — to be born:
For someone… to skydive, but for someone…
to freefall!