КУСТ

 

 

 

 

                                                         А этот куст,

                                                         а этот куст -

                       

                                                         престольно чужд,

                                                         бомжацки пуст.

 

                                                         Живой

                                                         дырявый абажур

 

                                                         на остановке

                                                         между урн -

 

                                                         он сам себя

                                                         в кулак зажал.

 

                                                         Скореженно

                                                         ежовый шар.

 

                                                         А в том сцепление

                                                         когтей,

 

                                                         за повиликою

                                                         ветвей -

 

                                                         янтарный отблеск

                                                         фонарей,

 

                                                         как лунный свет

                                                         души моей.

 

                                       

                                                             *********