Translated from Russian by Alex Cigale
To extinguish the lamp and the bright words.
The vase stares flush against its own bottom.
At the foot of the bed jazz flares up,
opening a crack
between your consciousness and the music.
Opium-death is like a landslide
rolling into the blood.
Dervish, dervish, you wandered along the road
woven into your open-souled sandals.
The torrid summer coagulates – and not only it
has destroyed you. The road. A café where
Miles Davis is playing. Stifling sweat trickles down the forehead
of the light-skinned saxophone player. From the only
mirror frame the silhouettes of dancing pairs
gradually displacing each other, but no one may
displace their gradualness. The dark-skinned
piano player finished his playing,
involuntarily letting out a howl, as though this number
itself completed the music. Soon –
a sleepless night. At sunrise the road deserted,
dozens of young drifters are walking everywhere
at this time of the night. Still the same territory.