I have nothing at all, only a table and a fridge,
And a splintered December staring at me through the window.
On the table lies a notebook, a phone with no charge,
Half a word, half a moan — and even that, catch it if you can.
I’ll paint my mouth blue and braid my lashes into plaits,
I’ll herd the cat each morning with my brush,
I’ll pour the food into the fridge and leave the table to the questions,
Knowing that now I own not a damn thing.
The fridge and December, the table and the cat — see, I am rich!
In a hidden little corner I’ll light a candle for the cat.
And pour him wine, the wine I used to drink myself,
And as for what did not come true — perhaps I’ll say nothing.
* * *
About love:
A flick of lashes — a song.
About love:
Hands upon shoulders.
And let there be silence, if
No one needs the sounds.
About love:
The eternal rhythm of battle.
About love
As the end of the world.
So that two become one,
And afterward cannot forget it.
About love:
A flash in darkness.
About love:
The loud cry of night.
It is impossible to love too much.
About love —
Shall I tell you?
* * *
Come then, let’s read between the lines:
Something black, evil, and huge
Was standing over my soul
And waiting for someone to help.
That was when, by taxi until dawn…
A cigarette, and another cigarette…
And a single telephone call.
Somewhere something clenched from pain
In that waiting, nevertheless,
From rapture down to the level of a sign.
All entrances, all passwords opened…
People in mirrors… Masks… Embraces,
Voices and festive dresses…
Come then, shall we talk a little?
* * *
Crows black-black,
Seagulls white-white.
Freshly baked
Rolls. The kettle boils.
A dizzying brew of herbs,
A crowd at the door:
A flock of my comrades,
A pack of my friends.
