Стихи и поэмы. Проза. Переводы. Письма. О поэте. Фото и видео.

Flight-3

Who led me across the city that morning?
Behind the railway station, he sat me down at a low
wooden table and produced a bottle. We cracked it like a watermelon.
My Adam's apple bobbing, as though I and the rails had shared the swallow.

On the fence was a pumpkin. I used to think the elixir of debility
was in the potato. But no! It's in the pumpkin,
an octave below. From the instability
of its inner glow, fingers of pulp emerge as if counting.

Farther down were the milk crates. Aluminum O's
lined up like ellipses. Piles of bottles
equipoised, despite themselves.
The abyss between them like frenzied sables.

An upturned crate, cast-aside, empty,
filled with its own evaporation.
Inevitability massing, everywhere, elementary,
more elementary than a bottle of milk with its lid punched in.

We sensed, or perhaps it was after-
an axis passed through us, dilating
like a scrim of plankton on an ocean pasture,
sucking sunlight, undulating

between thicknesses. Through us passed (we knew them not),
through us passed cardiac orphans in silence.
In the thinness of our bodies, their din was stopped
silent...I offered them drink and pennies...

They were going past. Burned by the dust.
The last one turned. We stood and faced him.
The hippodrome howled, and I went as I was
after him into the light of migration.

Translated from Russian by: 
Wayne Chambliss
Original source: 
Бегство-3
 

tres interessant, merci

tres interessant, merci

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