3 poems from Simona Nastac

exotic landscape
Saturday. we are 7.8 billion
old dresses - I sell them on the railway track
once the eastern border of an empire with
ogival vaults and crenellated turrets
white, freshly washed, one misses a strap
another, brackish algae green,
bearly keeps its frayed hem. I sell them cheaply
it's winter in the margins and knotholes

I also have photo frames, fake pearls, worn-out plush toys
let's sell everything:
the parents, the fatigue, the sacral residues
let's go to the centre, where


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