From the photo story “Singles” by A. Hayrapetyan

Trying to State Myself

I passed through hotels,
kitchens,
but they would not suffice—
I entered bedrooms,
and when the sheets were moistened
from my feverish curves,
I was a poet if you please,
I could write verse on love, nature and the native land
to make them ring out from podiums—
I could be guaranteed a little piece of ground at the Pantheon
as insurance,
I preferred, instead, to end up my sad career
in bathrooms.
Still, I didn’t have enough,
and I threw out my body—
I am a heavy rain man—
how light the air is,
long live my legs, they’re still tight, marching in ditches
and elsewhere,
how flexible the wind is, my right dancing partner—
how we scavenge on garbage cans!
what garbage cans! true poetry!

And fare thee well.
See you at the Pantheon.