The Bomb Shelter

the basement. the remotest corner and an old man there

is curled into a thorny billiard ball.

the elbows and knees jut out through

the chapped varnish.

73 is the number.

the entrance thrusts out

its lower jaw.

the high-rise is a vertical cockroach with its head

torn off.

night is

a black skull wrapped in black leather.

the veins of light are pulsing on the curtains—don’t smoke!

when you are getting out, your eyes always catch

a flying rocket.

if a buttered toast falls in wartime

it always lands butter-side on the scattered shrapnel.

the wail of an alarm—

disturbing mold of sounds.

a rabid beast has gnawed off the fingers of

the avenue;

these pits are left by Grads and shrapnel.

coughing quietly, the old man

comes out of the basement to urinate against the background of

the terrible starry sky.

he swallows saliva from his chin.

the war like a photo camera on spidery legs

is slowly crawling behind your back,

watching you.