March flies swarm and spill.
Blistered prints of dragon-flies and frogs.
Dream zones of bright verdure.
A shell, its nose held up,
crumbles at the merest touch,
but the hard edge holds:
this instrument sounds like
an owl call, as I stride into
the summer forest, owls about.
Petr Borkovec (born 1970) Czech Republic
Translated by Justin Quinn
Source: Transcript
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