Best Poem of Ulrike Almut Sandig

[fishing]
my cap'n! / sinking the ship
in the afternoon tea, the taciturn
creases on the edge of the table,
corners on corners, tillerman's
talk, folded hands, his
enclosing mine, the right thumb
crossing the other. fishing
for phrases, steering clear
of rain, mumbled bits, smoothing
over covered . . .
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[russian woods]
russian woods, what we hooted about, where
we didn't go, where sheaves of light shot up to
the spruce crowns, red, where the ashes
from cigs and bent steel covered the ditches
along the field. on the outskirts of the village
tables moved and something woke us
late: further on was the end of the path.

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