Winter 2007 • Vol. XXIX No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 2007 |

Untitled

From the Russian.    to write of a city, my city, which is no more, of snow-covered squares tattooed in pigeon tracks, like on palms, to write of that, as the prospect races by, and ruby Kremlin stars burn in the fir trees to write of a city, my city, where the scent of persimmon, public lifts rise toward evening like mercury up through glass silos, which floor?—doesn't matter, I'm at the top—and all night long, from behind a wall the Radiola sings to me of flights and cosmonauts, to write of a city, my city beneath rose ice, your candy-colored domes sprinkled with snow, remembering your alleyways, foil wrappers we scored with nails, as I pass over the ring road a complete stranger, the onion-domed Savior over the boulevard, and a book bazaar, where I read the words on your spine like a prayer, it's Mashenka in paperback, Blizzard, Foundation Pit, and a sauced Kazakh behind a stand cracks open a half-liter bottle, pours and drinks, having turned back towards the gr

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