This man,
who fled from Tblisi –
where snow fell as GPU lips
on each crop of new men;
who lived for two years
in a cellar in Paris;
who came, in despair,
to the haematite welcome,
the skyglare and suburbs out here –
breathes now
by shifting
alignments of pins in his lungs:
sits, like a skull with flared nostrils,
wrapping himself in brown fumes –
as if all he had left
were to murder himself, bit by bit,
with his own private fire –
having withstood
the coercion of all other flames.
EN 
MK