OLEH KOTSAREV
THE DRIVER REGROUPS
those eyelashes of the turns of the road—those small bells of the past in the grass
the driver threads rivers one by one—
in that glazed tile of the night-and-river air,
his confident movements are cemented with a secret fright—
the driver regroups—
if he doesn’t regroup
a catastrophe awaits him.
Translated by Lev Hrytsyuk
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