Excerpt (1969 r)

From tears, distilled pupil,
larynx washing me, out
not let go and there, under the cerebellum,
formed an ice puddle,
out of the night, smudged pipe,
superior masculine caprice,
from blood, so spoiled by you,
- and more truly - I create your ghost,
And me, like a dog, don't tear your eyes
from the intersection, where polyphonic
the brakes frantically bark,
when wheels get lost in a crowd
trolleybuses, when the red light
your ghost is running, fear of which
more likely to stall motors,
than drivers. And if this is nonsense,
night my nonsense, then squeeze whiskey.
But the heavy nonsense is uninterrupted at night
alarm clock, roaring tram,
huge city tearing to pieces,
like a white sheet, where it says goodbye.
But destroying the address on the envelope,
you enter the house, whose rooms are lichen
oblivion shears, and the thought of death
seeks shelter in a fading mind
to the touch, like an occasional inmate
someone else’s apartment with fingers in the dark
a switch fumbles in fear.

1969

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Joseph Brodsky
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