Seven Hours One Minute
by Olga Zondberg · 01/21/10
beer some
what-what?
***
how Ivan Ivanovich quarreled with Ivan Nikiforovich
how will we modernize Russia
how I spent the summer
how I ate the dog
***
why is this poem
so short
I don’t like it when women talk so much
***
saw an animal in the street
“hey animal” I said
I chased it grabbed it let it go
then I chased it again but did not catch it
did not grab it did not even see it
not one
no one has had one
for a long time
on the other hand, the totemic people came
***
the older I get
the less I can drink
head aches
as nothing could ever be done with it again
taste on the tongue—the last breath of the finished ball
and if you add
it will immediately turn out
like a Möbius strip
living in Russia with such a body
is sometimes even sadder
then with all your heart and talent
indeed I probably have
a squeamish guardian angel
(quiet angel
quietly turned
from the numbers of the counter
on my home page:
a mob, already ten, yuck)
every morning he says,
come on get up I already
let’s go I already
don’t be afraid I’ll cover you
reproachfully looks
at my sleeping foot or hand
so that it will feel guilty for everything
on the opposite side
another similar one says, don’t be afraid
come to me
***
