Then it had been March
Then it had been
March. To sleep in a room head north in bed
with one's nose in someone's gruff
frock that smelled of leather, thyme,
melted snow, a Man
like an Asiatic market. 'It gets
on the nerves', said Lenin listening to
the Appassionata, 'It makes one talk
nonsense rather than hit men on their heads'
Towards evening the snow crust became quite blue.
I think that with you I travel
wherever. You say: do with me
whatever you want.