the night lies  like a dead man's violin...

the night lies 
like a dead man's violin

on this street 
you feel like a hermit 
at the end

the rustling of the leaves 
breaking something 
that shouldn't be broken

and the blue things 
that are supposed to happen in old age
tug at the sleeve
like a child 
with bare eyes

Zhadan walks 
from house to house 
like St. Nicholas

leaving on windowsills 
silence 
of torn out larynxes

for those 
who get up in the night 
to heat milk