Summer 1995 • Vol. XVII No. 3/4 European Voices |

Untitled: From Munich, 1991

The whole city seductively lit up, all the streets are my footsteps, the homes like warm baked goods absorb the odors of their surroundings. Shrubbery flowers are added in among the nervous green endings— claret the flower of sorrow and every white heap of nonsense. Suddenly the city is extinguished, suddenly, in my own eyes, only just this minute alive, it stands charred in the night, and in the daylight corpse-like, waxen. I look into alien windows, faces, slip away from the familiar route—maybe to hide out in the Alps or, like Suvorov, to cross them.   Translated from the Russianby J. Kates

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