Pavel Konov


Black milk of daybreak we drink it at nightfall
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
we drink it and drink it

―Paul Celan

Past noon already—the spinach is cold.
Outside, minds streak silently in the rain.
You must have already eaten.

Glue melts in anticipation
In the joints of my chair.

No bother. Besides,
The page is already thin
With anemic words
Unable to carry their own weight
In air.

Between you, three times a day,
I’d thought about gulag.
Figures streaking barracks
Art rooms, retinas: our own
Retinue of jittering rods.
It’ll be fullness of raspberry
Seeds for me.

In breath-thought I’ll wait
Like spinach in plates.