where’d that butt get to

by Semyon Khanin
     translated by Kevin M. F. Platt

* * *

where’d that butt get to
smoke by the bed near the column; more from right under the bar

bullet holes precision drilled by mechanical woodpecker

who’s that a curtain or what, what’s that you’re up to
from the advance purchasers’ faces pressed against the windows
visibly, slowly
a wave of sorrow washes down

at least they’re no bottom-feeding perches, but nearly, quite
nearly
huddled mistakenly there, and if you fire, please miss the point

* * *

the bust of the Bacchante stands apart from it all

what’s with the runaround — it’s written all over her face
her gaze locked on the unmade bed in the corner

why this barrier always between me and reality
she would often ask (and thought, herself, she couldn’t pass
judgement
questioning out or signing off like that) fixing her hair with a
quick movement

the tenderhearted rabble-rouser with stinging iodine
the constant butt of her jokes
walks up, walks up, rubs it in, moves on

someday the only thing left here’ll be
unbearable safes
smoke trails along the floor, eats now at eyes of blue