The birthmark on your neck is amusing.
It looks like a tiny fly.
I want to touch it, to play with it,
to see if the spider comes running to the call of the skin.
I want to bite your neck like a vampire,
to infect you with my own world,
to leave in the reeds of your subconsciousness
a few tadpoles.
You're holding my heart, and little by little,
you pare it with scissors,
waiting when it becomes
as small as
a scout badge,
but anyway, I'll be the first to get at your spine.
We are together, you and me. It's evening.
It's raining outside.
Someone plays Chopin's nocturnes
with long oily fingers;
the oily golden streetlights loom and shimmer,
and I'm looking at your neck – it's as refreshing as to look
at a waterfall or at a young branch.
You say that I'm a fetishist,
That I look at you with a deranged greediness
like a neighbor kid who swallowed spiders, on a bet.
It's because, my love, that I have
so much free time,
that I've missed all the trains in the world,
and I loaf about the railway station,
writing down no man's poetry lines
no one's searching for.
(translated by Sergey Gerasimov from Russian)