Ivan Peledov is a poet living in Colorado. He has been published in Unlikely Stories, Eunoia Review, Sonic Boom, Illuminations, and other magazines.
Afternoons devour oranges and lemons. A red dog is riding a bicycle in the background. Nature can’t shape all the vices of a tree, shake all its voices off, invisible tongues licking the fiery colors of the sky. A true bird, they say, is a living enraptured problem.
The moon collects forged and forgotten dreams and counts stolen wings and helicopters. Mornings destroy the contents of the air, all the invisible towers full of wind, all the endless factories of the night where lost caterpillars can’t read monumental slogans. Robins have no advice for rabbits and prairie dogs, but plenty of joy.
Coins in the pocket whisper about oceans. It’s a foreign country if you haven’t noticed and the angels look funny but talk the same nonsense as usual. Stifling violin sounds destroy the lungs. Long live feathered rabbits, guinea pigs, lizards, serpents, and llamas. People sleep on the wing, you know.