I was bom and grew up in the Baltic marshland

by zinc-gray breakers that always marched on

in twos. Hence all rhymes, hence that wan flat voice

that ripples between them like hair still moist,

if it ripples at all. Propped on a pallid elbow,

the helix picks out of them no sea rumble

but a clap of canvas, of shutters, of hands, a kettle

on the burner, boiling-lastly, the seagull's metal

cry. What keeps hearts from falseness in this flat region

is that there is nowhere to hide and plenty of room for vision.

Only sound needs echo and dreads its lack.

A glance is accustomed to no glance back.

© The Estate of Joseph Brodsky / Wylie Agency London

Ich bin im baltischen Sumpfland geboren

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