A stuffed quail
on the mantelpiece minds its tail.
The regular chirr of the old clock's healing
in the twilight the rumpled helix.
Through the window,birch candles fail.
For the fourth day the sea hits the dike with the hard horizon.
Put aside the book, take your sewing kit;
patch my clothes without turning the light on:
golden hair
keeps the corner lit.
Joseph Brodsky
(1968/translated by the author)
