Ah Tatyana Larina
when we think of her
writing letters on the park bench
like every woman in 2019
you know how nostalgic modernity can be
and the fiery daisies on the angry flowerbeds
and hopelessly naked
as they should be
slightly inclement
like a Estella Havisham
there is a paradox of color and light and intuition
somewhere behind the blue eyes
they sculpted modenity with their shoulders
and their fragile backs
which are white
we owe a debt to the ballerinas
and to Pina Bausch
for dancing in the ruins when they are ruined
we don’t do much ourselves
but suffer and fuck
in the haunting bed
and the one who didn’t show up there
while we were hoping to become part of this century
just as you can’t make a bra out of ice
and again melt it
who wears bras anyway
it’s the custom of that being
to seduce
how are you feeling in the old fashioned summer
I am feeling like a train on rails covered with snow
how can you
you were made in the image of God
I was not
I was made in the image of a shy train driver
and Pina Bausch swimming with her swans
“with a liquid explosion of missing”
apart from love (please never say it)
I feel sorry for our modernity
for being so orphaned
but it’s my duty to smile.