The Hunger

Black, blue, orange, bright red,

draw me such stains that I can’t wash them off,

when I get back late at night, I'll wake up the dog

from the top floor, she will whine and

scratch the door and then fall in

basement on the back of a stray cat. They

will look into the eyes of those who rise in the elevator,

but will never rise above the stairs

not even a fire department, but a library one,

will watch black and white TV,

news from the middle of the century, from the Ostankino Tower.

I wake up late on Saturdays, forgetting

lock the window. I wake up to the sound

like someone making love very loudly,

I accept their groans as holy gifts,

I can imagine what they are like, how he enters

teasing and kissing her back as she

runs with tongue and fingertips

along the entire length, tastes its juice rhythmically.

The trees in Paris are completely without snow,

resemble iron monsters

sometimes I dream about these trees,

giant winded up toys move

narrowing my thoughts from all sides

into the corridor in Midas' labyrinth.

Your yards are somewhat similar, similar

these big buildings are pressing, pushing

into the skating rink in awe.

Paint me blue, orange,

bright red flowing along the embankment,

like floors and cats on a black and white TV.