night, agave, gulls, kontador.
in its burning hot puddle, slowly, towards the bottom,
the wax ascends to its symbols.
if I really listen to the radio now,
if it’s really night-time now
the stampede of slow death
in every telex of your sleeping breath,
then I really move
a small, black, burning obelisk
on deserted beach from east to west and back again.
in the morning, on the green shores,
fishermen will swallow your shoulders under their wet raincoats.
your volga profile
that heavy fog moves for hours
towards its own rotting remains.
I flick cigarette
ash into my shoes.
that will make me walk more easily tomorrow.
six months ago, in winter,
while insects behind the wallpaper
built a pontoon of trains and roses
I listened to the radio
in the single-bed hotel room.
at that time over moscow
the cranes were already on the way to forget you.
palme got killed several days after that
during the first minutes of the green megahertz
when your uniform
was already a heated space suit
with the etched constellation
of melancholic sex.