THE FUNERAL PARLOUR’S ABUZZ WITH LIFE RISEN UP FROM THE RANKS

(В ПОХОРОННОМ ДОМУ РАСШУШУКАЛАСЬ ЖИЗНЬ-ВЫДВИЖЕНКА)

The funeral parlour’s abuzz with life risen up from the ranks,

and more than a little:

Chernomyrdin with bunch of dead blooms, Yevtushenko fresh from a telecast,

Brighton Beach biddies,

and camera tripods like lean-legged mosquito marauders

that swarm towards the light. The crowd

casts an eye on the aristocratic marble

of that yellowish brow.

The shifting breeze, like a dog playing games with its owner,

is retrieving – not a ball or a stick, but odours:

whiff of sesame oil from a Chinese take-out,

the ocean’s warm exhalation,

coffee vapour,

wafting them up to the funeral parlour and away.