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This poem is taken from PN Review 218, Volume 40 Number 6, July - August 2014.

Thirty-Nine Rooms translated by J. Kates Nikolai Baitov

Here is my room. Lingering dawn fingers
every ghostly object in it. I wake up
and look all around me – my eyeglasses
over there. A watch, a cup.


Here is my room. Dust on the icons, thick.
In the cracked icon-lamp a desiccated wick.
Antique books no one has opened, it appears,
for a hundred years.


Here is my room, various forces interlacing
among galaxies, black holes, empty spaces,
pulsars, quasars, neutron stars, and in this place
my feeble brain.


Here is my room. Come on in, that’s the way.
Akhmetev and I were drinking yesterday.
Not much to eat. Nothing to worry about.
Even a place to sit.


Here my room stands between worlds. Enough,

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