Somewhere

by Shamshad Abdullaev|
translated by Alex Cigale

The distance — like a madman’s pupil.  Under the throat
a flower curls about rapidly and droops behind the shoulders —
a deep crimson Cesar rose on the dark heel of the hillside.  You are
wearing a corduroy jacket and a sweaty mask.  The automobile —
a tormented animal dreaming of a cage.  The road
emerges from under the wheels
splitting the sun’s vapors.  Where are we heading?
The air bangs at the side of your face; foreigners; the radio
announcer chatters affectedly — something
between a playboy and Mallarme and you snicker.  Even
speech — is no exit.  More like a foray into the depth
of a viscous aimlessness where the dull feeling attends:
the lightning, the gap, nothing; and a drop
of a delicious venom enlivens me,
it being dead.