Рыба 1997
Translated by Alexander Shapiro © 2019


Lived up. The goods do totter. The tongue's in situ, the words are nil.
Fish in an orb of water makes me embarrassed, and keeps the still.
Does not emit resplendence, and watches sternly with no delight.
Fish, susurrate a sentence. At least, for instance, "alive, alive".

Gerunds as tips I gathered, despite privation, picked up a few.
Long list rolled up to rather large box of cases. Ta-ta, adieu.
Rhythm of my pacing smolders, not even nearly, but far astray.
Fish, do unfurl the shoulders. The rue's unthought of, spook it away.

Autumn. The rain. The slumber. A sleepless pressure, an endless sink.
Photo of someone somber	will come around and make a wink:
Do you remember tea room, the one in Soho? I do and so!
Fish, I am sad and tearful, I'm even sadder than blink ago.

Old song recounts how the tracks of children the waves will doff.
Visit? I'll pass for now. Will come to leaving, will say - slept off.
Either I'll wait for longer, won't leave the carpet. The Moon's inapt.
Autumn. The rue. The languor. What's in the visit, when waves have flapped?

"Clean beast in two" I wonder I've read somewhere, my ken beyond.
Fish in an orb of water to my misfortune will not respond.
Flexible catching essence, a tiny trinket, bluegill-alewife.
Fish, susurrate a sentence. Unfurl the shoulders. Alive, alive.