Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Eleven poems

“Hey, mom, what kind of janitor Is that guy living in our basement? His name’s forgotten already, If spoken it crumbles apart. Now he hardly ever comes out, Damn him, onto the searing ice, Scraping at it with his iron spade, Scratching with his sharp broom. When in the morning I get dressed And go away to work Or when I’m getting undressed And lay my shoes in their box, In the womb of the cramped basement By the light of night or of day He keeps lying there, like a coverlet, And the deep keeps looking at me.”

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