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If this large drop
the size of a decent boulder
were not its own distinct entity
which over the years
lay under the fence on the nearby street
one could say
that someone had carefully
sliced off a pop star’s butt cheek
and lay it under the fence,
meat side down, skin side up.
But in reality, the drop had skin all around.

For as long as I can remember, the drop lay there.
Initially it was fresh and smooth,
nearly transparent –
when it was raining, the drop pulsed.
Оne could almost see the capillaries
inside it.

But soon it was attacked by wrinkles.
Few and barely noticeable at first,
yet year in, year out
they covered it ever more abundantly
and irrevocably.
Later I realized
that even its insides
became wrinkly –
whatever they were made of.
Wrinkles came to constitute it.
And when inside and out
there was not a speck left intact –
wrinkles wrinkling the wrinkles –
it was the end.

Soon the drop disappeared
and in its place
there was a slight dent,
which formed under its weight over the years.
I know that one day
they hauled up the drop, like a boulder,
set it on a truck, drove it away
and threw it out into the void, like a dead bitch.

translated by oksana maksymchuk

the original poem

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