Vodka fatally depraves
male company.
There must be at least one woman -
otherwise it's straight to the grave. In the
third hour, the beast awakes,
in the fourth, waving
of razorblades or axes becomes possible -
in the fifth - tearful confessions,
kissing of hands and feet.
At least one woman is indispensable
so it doesn't all look so revolting.

This time, there was no lady,
and it was the fifth hour.

He tries to read something
in my palm.

Oh, he says, I can't even
tell you the whole truth, y'know.
Say it, I say.

(I'm past caring, though I'm ready
right now, for anything - thirty years old, because
I'm ready because it's the fifth hour, because I have a right
to the truth, because it's all the same to me).

Oh, he says, I don't even know
how to tell you, y'know.
Give it to me straight, I say.

(I don't give a damn, even now - cut veins
or a bullet in the head - in my only-just thirty years
because I'm wasted, because it's the fifth hour, because I want
to know, however awful it might be).

At the third attempt, he tells me
his ‘forty seven'. Ah - what relief!
A whole seventeen years! What space!
What transparency
on the horizons!

I remember it as if it were yesterday:
around three am
the whole gang bursts out into the fresh air
everything drunk, no cigarettes left,
stumbling, we cut through the darkness.

Then suddenly something like this:
I wipe my sweaty palm on the green grass, yes, exactly,
green because it's the middle of April.