solo

the wire. the ghetto. an eastern landscape.

over the sea the sedge rustles softly and in front of the pupil

the reeds resound

the city withers in the shackles of the night watch

the double body sinks to the meat straw

with a crinkle of dense grass.

zooming cicadas skewer slowly.

slowly the curtain goes down like a shroud

this is the first time i taste your life—

you wince but there is no tearing loose—

the palms of your hands

your knees

your births

your departures into a hollow name

your touches

your

—drink

to drink of yours

—to drink

—to drink

Translated by Max Nemtsov