Five March, Березень, пятый, these
clouds, butterflies, this old anger and
this rotten coffee ***. Mold and clouds.
The insufferable beauty of potholes, we walk Yulitsa Kikvidze
and note buildings blotched with satellite dishes
(mushroom sprouts from Soviet brick) concrete
proof that we exist. Yesterday, I say
I will not be a prime squared again
for seventy-two years: happy birthday, маленькая кошка! Snowlit
clouds, ice and broken asphalt, springtime in Kiev is all
disappointed dogs, life after love.

In an otherwise quiet snowlit night
the chelloveck ahead has shuffle-skitch shoes.
I have clock clock boots.
The fog train to Voksal at this distance
hoots like a toy. Some meters trailing
someone’s step is a sticky squick-squick.
As I turn left, I think of nothing
save cognac, cognac and koshka (Marusya),
the mild entertainments of loneliness so far removed
from my mother tongue:

through snow-covered courtyards the dogs hours ago abandoned.

What good is it to be fluent in one’s own language
when the mashrutka slush and hiss
down Yulitsa Kikvidze in the distance?
At home, the cat chews the cords to the blinds
of the kitchen window, her wants
more important than mine.