You exit, locking up darkness like a drawer.
How much clothing we’ve minced!
How many yachts have entered our waters, how many
fireworks and bodies! How we’ve crashed
into the drowsy crowd, armed with an accordion!
But a thousand quiet Tuesdays are worth but one hour of crying.
One day a neighbor will point his hot cursor at you.
Children will set up a hiding place in the open rain.
Their pounding and laughter will not give you a moment’s rest.
You will take pleasure in the evening trains,
drown in a plush carpet, full of static.
Your quiet magnet will spark as long as a wet hand
is knocking at your door. Everything will happen
as if you’ve long been praying to the pretty Sunday gods.
Stay with me, you entire night without sleep,
you entire night of the signal fire.
Should I accidentally waiver, hold me
by my pale heel.
translated by oksana maksymchuk