PALETTE

Here September returns to get everything changed.
The fracture is bleeding blackly, thickly, abruptly,
bringing those teachers of yours from the monastic school,
or actually
the madrasa;
those who’d whipped your childish hands with the rulers,
bringing the pale wraiths of your companions lost,
bringing the screams and whispers, bringing the murky foam,
bringing the girls, eager to skip the borderline
once they’ve broken free from their somniferous backwoods homes
(primarily they want to get rid of the accents.
Grey are their narrow bodies, fishy and lifelessly cold,
willing to get exercised, willing to not mistake
the rules of conjunction between a donor and an acceptor).
Listen, the streetcar insane is singing aloud
of how the birds are leaving Ukraine, flying over the chimney of ours.
So how can we hope
to survive uninfected
when the crescent is scything us all
in a row?
Cotton vanilla candy’s wafting over the town.
Bog is twinkling with light. Count those glimmers, then sleep.
Humping over the morning coffee, my madly perplexed Majnun,
have you already forgotten where were you going to leave?
Here it’s September. Bogs are excreting their green malodour.
Men remain on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Come, fill my steps in. Slicky yellow light of the lanterns
pours its juice on your shoulders.
Now you have nothing to learn,
highly infatuated forever.
Merely touch the thread on your wrist and remember:
here September returns to get everything changed
over and over again.