Where A Palm Lane Turns To Weeds Poem by Anna Polibina-Polansky

That reeking brook may mot irritate anyone. Voiceful tropic birdies are demistified by magnolian lanes but yet, precise at their bliss of foretelling marvels. It is a wedding ceremony for two joys of firm juncture. Africa is a half an hour away, at a motor boat that delivers us to corals and necklaces of nameless isles. The revery is yet prohibited by a chain of nunneries. We agree for less and less. The rows of date palms are disjuncturized by platanes. People signify to people so little if they are not kindred. Deities observe us from afar. Archibishops are at their ceaseless battle. Our established pair is yet hotly discussed. Copulations take away prohibitions, but it is just an obvious layer. There are less apparent such as punishment. Deities are incuisitive and inventive at their bitter transgression. Christian pairs unimplorably pay, especially when they are thirty five years away from each other. We prefer to think than to eat boons. Poetizing is sort of condemning will. But once we are awarded, we are doomed. The palm beach is lost from the sight in blossoming straws of grass. We abide in Africa, but most likely, at a mute Australian metropolia. The world starts from about here where toads and dragonflies are startled with soaking ebbs. I am likely to bury your name downside the edge of the bottomless, ceaseless local memory. We are just strokes for the sand's landscapes.2014-2022.