Preface
I want blah blah blah
and the power of yadda-yadda
the power of Flaubert and Zola
the power of good and evil
the power of libraries
So I could turn you into a chronic bruise
So I could clone you into a wound
This old witch
Where did she die
What month date
What stranger
passed by a mass of snow she was frozen into.
Her galoshes stuck out like two prunes on a wedding cake.
Whatever’s touched-up, wiped-out
I wish to expose, to trace
like a child – her tongue stuck out diligently –
traces letters.
What letter is this?
What do you think?
Aaaaaaaaaaa Could be aaaaaaaaaa
Zinaida Bykova lowers herself into the snow,
like Verlaine – into the grass
in the suburb of London.
I leave her now,
I live a bit now.