Clothes come to the party,
they wear you underneath
and I'm afraid.
Roasted nuts
speed along in a thousand directions,
and from those deep plates, become invisible.
Numerous tongues. Brightly colored lips.
The many rhythms of nodding chins.
The quickly shrinking past—
soon I will enfold it in a candy wrapper.
Your day's reflection over the new entertainment—
cutting off every frame from the film
except those of pendulous women offering their consent.
What are the recently depressed accused of?
How do you lift up the women
to whom you've taught everything?

translated from the Georgian by Nene Giorgadze and Timothy Kercher