*

insomnia. funny Mandelstam

soars, rattling shackles,

in the Far Eastern Stalinist print

containing himself with inaudible words.

life moves through the trees in the window,

branches repeating fluent handwriting,

and the voice fading within me -

sharpening the lines I didn’t find.

goodbye my friend. must be forever.

I don’t want tea, but I don’t want a meeting either.

getting used to the Bashlachev places,

lose their speech.

lose the sense of mileage,

the presence of spring in the autumn beach,

and no longer find beauty

in a landscape devoid of beauty.