xxxxxi.

between the beat of drum—space

this footstep and that one: a question

the edge of silence,

and the shadow at the edge of the light

I don’t know if you’ll make it home

but I hope so.

xxxxx.

across the tundra,

thunder in the mountains

the sea rolls

black and angry, still

the trees crack

the sky—bare and dark

your hands are sails, you feet

an arc

carry two of everything

in your soles,

until you come again

the light burning high above the city

and low by the docks,

the soil of All possible Russias—

caught in your socks,

upon the girder, walk

and the doves will do the flying

the city is just a skeleton,  

but it will watch, living

--the old days are dying.