you tell me of the long lines for fruit. of the men who, for the cheap vodka, aged too fast.
they are more tender now. the men. buying cigarettes for the wives. you tell me you can live for a month on tea sediment and black bread,
you tell me, you tell me. sometimes your only dish is the cracked porcelain of the February cold, a tea cup of cigarette ends. still you open the compote jars of desire, singing, singing. I empty the tea cup.
I look to you, and do not ask which of us is closer to the dawn when deer will bend to drink from us.