качается домик / [a cottage swaying]
качается домик
на белой воде
бульварного неба —
а может, нигде
— качается
между бульваров
москва (давно
опустели москвы
рукава) — одна
по привычке
дворняга нужду
справляет в её
позабытом углу
(мелькает как облако
жизнь в голове)
— и дальше бежит
по небесной
москве
HELP
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a cottage swaying
on a dime store
heaven’s white water —
or maybe nowhere
— swaying
between moscow’s
boulevards (moscow’s
sleeves emptied
so long ago) — a lone
mongrel, out
of habit, forced
to celebrate in a
forgotten corner
(yes, an entire life
flashes like a cloud)
— dashes further
through a celestial
moscow
An entire life can flash through a mind in one stanza — the “cloud” is meant to halt the scene (the reality), to provide an alternate form. Since historical Moscow, the city of my youth, was largely destroyed and rebuilt in Putin’s decade, the “Moscow” in my mind is a distant past, an invisible city of memory. This is a lullaby for that dream of a city, which I desperately miss.
P.S. We’re all depressed by the sham of a Pussy Riot trial. Getting really dull in Russia.
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