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Igor Isakovski, from Six Macedonian Poets

Bucharest 5.30

Bucharest at five —
my new shoes
are by the door.

Bucharest, five thirty
seagulls free, weightless,
the sun bashfully undressing

Bucharest, replete and beautiful
shamelessly colourful, with perfumed concrete

Bucharest, seven thirty
the last garlands before the first flight tonight
and I pour whiskey from my bag:
we should invent an honourable withdrawal

Bucharest, late afternoon
escorts me with a storm —
last night I was sitting on a terrace
watching the seagulls
light up the sky:
white stripes freed of meaning

now I have more whiskey than water
and not a fucking cent
we should invent a proud retreat

Bucharest, late afternoon
takes me strolling through Eliade's labyrinths
too much literature for one day

I slowly withdraw
I leave the scene with a gentle bow —
yet another city I will return to

Bucharest at dusk
Bucharest in June
Bucharest with deep necklines
Bucharest with small firm breasts
Bucharest with salmon chased by white seagulls