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László G. István
Towns Fall
A tattered frieze, your eyebrow
holds in prison whatever may look at it.
We never look at the other. We talk
like the day and the night cast light
on the foil of the mirror – it’s better
to keep silent here. The ebb and flow
of anger have worn the dark ditch
under your eyes, the swell of waves you will
helplessly endure, indeed, the rhythmic rocking
sets you to rest, or so it would
if your rest, too, were not conceived
in anger. Have an early start? Your rage
reaches no longer than your rest.
You can bring a few things. Your face
sheds powder like plaster as you turn
and turn on  the pillow, so towns fall,
as one moment falls
on the other moment.

Translation: Geher István