by Nilay Özer, translated by Aron Aji Maksim Shutov I multitudo-i-am she said name of your land you stopped in the eyes of a hyena all is speedwhere are you when I say this the woodstove in the village teahouse is the epicenter of now a crack deepens in its marble you fall in writing is vertigo the soot smell in the bread the roads where rotting melons trundle these two must be related else why would they take refuge in the same sorrow at once feet sinking in the tracks left