Poem for Sunday, November 8, 2009

Russkiy

is the only way we can communicate, it seems. You're sitting in a

cafe, tapping the tile floor with your pseudo-leather boots (I see

this in my Moscow dreams), and your coffee is cold. Watching

bundled-up pedestrians blurred by window frost--are you

begging for company? The barstools aren't swinging. The ash-

trays are clean because you can see your rosy cheeks in the glass,

and you notice you need a haircut and your earrings are too flashy

for this side of the

street.

Zhingshina, I whisper to you through the vent up above.

My presence is presently strong (I want to you to be warm); I can

see you through the window now, but you can't see me.