bumped shadow. It fluttered in traction
sebaceous cinder. And threw out
With the whitened lips and from the sheet of paper
The chalk chant syreyuschih windows.
In the hour, when the writer is only probable,
Pale guess pale fire,
In sweltering nights ears they do not shout it:
“This hour murder! Somewhere waiting for me!”
In the hour, when the garden desperately pulls shadow
drunk, like space, world, how jump
Steppe under saddle, I'm all dependents
In the column of fire in the inflamed lines.