Poem: ‘Bougainvillea’
Uljana Wolf, translated by Sophie Seita, 19 October 2017
1.
mis-dotted morning, how it rises in the mist, how the blotting paper soaks, watercolours, incline of leaf tips, or inclined towards tipped-in tulle, a branchling peels out of its costume, has no body, uncurls itself, takes its pick (green) and the nerve endings in the shoulder of the valley welcome this, they move their arms, wave to the table, the knots, blossoms, the ungraspable air...
