and when "the future" is uttered, swarms of mice
rush out of the Russian language and gnaw a piece
of ripened memory which is twice
as hole-ridden as real cheese.
After all these years it hardly matters who
or what stands in the corner, hidden by heavy drapes,
and your mind resounds not with a seraphic "doh",
only their rustle.
Life, that no one dares
to appraise, like that gift horse's mouth,
bares its teeth in a grin at each
What gets left of a man amounts
to a part.
To his spoken part.
To a part of speech.
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