To me, ablaze, the yoke of brows
has lugged fresh pails from deep-eyed wells.
In lacustrine silks you hung,
an amber fiddle chanting in your thighs?
You threw no baited line
into the regions of malignant roofs.
In sands' nostalgia bathed, I drown in boulevards;
for that's my daughter-
my song
in mesh of stocking gliding
by the coffee houses!
A Few Words About My Mamma
I have a mamma on blue cornflower wallpaper.
But I pace about in peahen colors,
torturing shaggy camomiles with my measuring stride.
When the evening sounds its rusty oboes,
I walk to the window,
believing
I shall see again
the cloud
reposing
upon the house.
But mamma's sick in bed,
and from it
a rustling of people scurries to an empty corner.
Mamma's aware-
this is the helter-skelter of mad thoughts
crawling from behind the roofs of the Shustov factory.
And when the dimming window-frame
bloodies my forehead, crowned with a felt hat,
then I shall speak out,
pushing apart with my bass voice the wind's howl:
"Mamma.
