He is gone — I cannot eat:
The taste — of stale bread.
All — chalk.
Anything I am drawn to.
...I am the bread that was
And the snow that was.
And the snow was not white
And the bread was unloved.
Ушёл — не ем:
Пуст — хлеба вкус.
Всё — мел.
За чем ни потянусь.
…Мне хлебом был,
И снегом был.
И снег не бел,
И хлеб не мил.
«So it begins. Year two rushes / From nurse into the darkness of melodies, / It whistles, it chirps, — then words / Begin around the third year. Thus does understanding begin. / And in the start-up noise of the turbine / It seems, that mother — is not mother. / You’re — not you, ...»
«This is how they start. At two years / They dash from their nannies into melody's darkness, / They chirp, they whistle, - and words / Appear around year three. This is how they start to understand. / And through the roar of the ignited turbine / It comes to seem that mother isn't mother. ...»
«Us few. Perhaps us three — just — / Blazing and infernal from Donets / Stuck beneath gray racing crusts / Of rain, clouds and Soviets / Of soldiers, poems and debates / About transportation and the arts. We were people. Now we’re epochs. / As time overtakes us in a rush of coaches...»
«The slanting pictures fly in like streaming rain / From the roadway where candles are snuffed, / But on their hooks and walls I’m unable to train them / To fall into line with feet and rhymes. But what if the universe were just — a mask? / Such that in certain latitudes, / Winter caus...»