Matvei Yankelevich

Winter — might pray to green trees                      
to see the star bring in a season in
which I sit metastasizing in my briefs
by the breeze of a blue fan with some
same complaints so that if you came
upon me — there, now — you would
not recognize me, but it’s me. The curve
of my back — same emails, same friend
requests ignored. Should I give up
for Martians don’t speak through me?
I’m observing this lack of purpose
proliferate in my cell walls; my whole
awareness is of distraction. Doubt
the erotic verse will get me a residency
or exile on the Black Sea where I’d stare
at brutal resorts built over the beach.
Can’t say I’m fond of this coercion, but
every night I try to do something
meaningful, and break what keeps
coming back. So I tie up a sack and
anchor a word to the bottom of
water. It’s a syntax, but it’s not a life.


          [published in the magazine A Public Space]