Comments about Milan Děžinský
Maybe, somewhere in a storm,
she stands on a terrace looking into the rain,
the storm blazes in her, the ocean rough
in her blood was first prophesied, when still
a small, coiled fish
in her mother’s womb
and someone warmed her with an ear.
She tempts the future;
a white, cold palm clasps
the brass of a rail, waiting for a bolt
to fly through the air like an angel
over a deep ravine full of water,
in which she can see darting
small, coiled fish.