Night. The houselights went out.
One can hear the neighbors’ dogs
and drops of rain striking
the bottom of a zinc bucket.
I washed my pants—still wet
they had to be taken off the clothesline
and brought into the kitchen.
Now I’m reading Tsvetaeva’s poems.
Whose fault is it that I can’t
find anything in them? Tsvetaeva’s?
Mine? Or maybe yours—
you, the owner of the tape player
with which I dine and sleep?
Where are you?