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Never mind the parts that came later, with all

the uselessness, as usual, of hindsight: regret's

what it has to be, in the end, in which way it is

like death, any bowl of sliced-fresh-from-the-tree

stolen pears, this body that stirs

                                            or fails to, as I

turn away, meaning Make it yours, or Hold tight,

or I begin to think maybe you were right - that

there's nothing, after ... thought whether or not like

one of those moments just past having woken to

yet another stranger,

                          how the world can seem

to have completely stopped when, finally, it's just

a stillness - who can say? First I envied them,

then I came to love them for it, how the stars each

day become again invisible, while going nowhere.

Now Rough, Now Gentle

Carl Phillips

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translated from the Ukrainian written by
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