A kind of love, between the apartment-blocks
with snow-ears: unreal, outside time
the stones lie under the ice
the frozen brake-marks, the drunkard's
pirouette -

in my heart
roars a finale, I don't know
from what piece
through the balcony window
gazes the geranium, motionless, a sleepy child
says: We saw Lenin . . .
and every light is a coin, good luck/bad luck
things decay into their stoical beauty

a dreaming conductor
with iron coinbox
we look at the snow and we want to escape

when, in little vehicles
we travel through cities, concentric rings remain
the last units
the exploited space breathes:
a massif of dead bees.

Translated by Donna Stonecipher