The poems after poems, they look like poems
and not like poems
there is a smell of threadbare skin from them
of heated metal – well, so what,

not write anymore? You’ll die of boredom!
They will put a stone with the inscription: “Passer-by,
stop at this grave,
it is all rotten, and for the appeal “O Lord”

there is no strong rhyme, neither skillful hand,
neither opened mouth – so at least close the eyes”.
In the distance, Chechens and Aztecs rumble

and here it is white and quiet as in a chemistry —
one moment vials tinkle on the counter,
another, a coin slips and rolls

across the tiles – but where to?! It landed on head
in the corner where the glory where the victorious thunder
rattle in verses in season and out of season