Lilt

Room Magazine - - CONTENTS - TRIIN PAJA

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.

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