by Andrei Voznesensky
Sell me, Fleamarket,
I dote on your triste keepsakes.
It's a cross between old blues and a barcarolle
Your candelabra, samovars--
Menagerie of dusty things!
Their pent-up centuries cry in you
Like elephants who trumpet for
Their rainy forests -- freedom, youth--
In aging zoos.
Rings, rusty bagatelles,
What breasts gleamed in you?
Here's armor, like a cast-off shell,
And whose was this cartouche?
Broken horseheads! Mustangs! Pinchbeck skulls!
If things had souls you'd be their fingerprints!
Temple of junk, Fleamarket!
Your clutter makes a small lost tune
My Muse waltzes to.
Loveseat, your springs gushed out,
Where are your lolling girls?
Can an hourglass measure centuries?
This fine suede, worn at the fingertips,...