An empty swimming pool,
a palace of pale olive twilight and reflections.
An echo, a transparent wounded bird,
pushes itself up with webbed feet of sound
from the heavy, smug water.
You lie on your back – a resting Jesus in swimming trunks,
on a comfortable, chlorinated crucifix, and
contemplate the pulsing scintillations on the ceiling,
which is high like in a temple.
Fuzzy scales of light flow up, and the fish inside
feels quietly happy, like a working computer.
And you dissolve in serenity;
crystals of mind and insanity melt while the blue night
is hissing with tires outside huge reticulate windows.
Here it is – the echoing, tiled, sterile feeling
of being out of time.
Now you are something that can’t be destroyed, wasted away,
or saved.
An ancient grain of sand has stuck to the palate of a sentient shellfish;
it has become covered with worlds, mirages, oases –
it’s so good to practice when everyone has left,
when all the sinewy frogs in tracksuits,
with wet hair, have departed.
And you need to stay – after the whole mankind,
need to spend your 25th hour on messages for bottles
(wet words run like lilac mascara on
damp eyes of your manuscripts,)
to spend time on training an alien inside
in order to achieve more than
the generous earthly life
can ever offer.
Translated from Russian by Sergey Gerasimov