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

Untitled

From the Russian.    How long have these roads weaved between darkening lakes. Sedges creaking along the way, and sturgeons splashing in the heavens. In the cossack village Birch Footbridge stars stroll through the pond. The evening guests have dozed off: birch bark rustles in their heads. And bluish burial mounds, like lamps, hum beneath the evening lights. Muzhiks sit round the hearth in striped turbans, Throwing leaden dice and drinking sky-blue wine, where damp stars swim and lie silently at the bottom.

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