Translated from Russian by Andrew Wachtel
I’m writing letters. To you. We spoke about them half the night.
Nerves are shot.
No one can be brought back.
You can scream as much as you want.
Cover the lamp.
You can lean up against a tree trunk
and wait things out.
How much sky and air out there!
But nothing to breathe.
Your inner rain’s soaked everything—
your legs have stuck to your skirt hem.
bare legs, with thin streams of tendons.