Igor Pomeranzev
Untitled
*I want to speak about a dead friend, about the frame of
his spectacles
which feel cold without his ears, without the bridge of his
nose. But I can’t.
It’s phoney, because he, I, and the one reading this
are all in the same context, that of death.
To lament somebody is phoney, egotistical.
Just try telling me I’m wrong!*
You know
what interests me
is the texture of love,
the fragility of this texture.
There are those labels on clothes:
handwash only
or
iron at no more than 40 degrees.
Yes, iron by hand,
but avoid overheating, and especially
never bring to the boil etc.
It’s true
I’m not interested in you,
although you do excite me.
But the texture, the texture.
Translated by Daniel Weissbort
Page(s) 232
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