-1Lemons, on a windowsill overlooking Saint Petersburg

Morning on
the assumption
of daylight.

You, oversee
the rising sun,
watch, clustered
clouds slash
blue-eyed portraits
against the sky.

Seven lemons
stretch their leathery
skin on the windowsill,

the glass
moaning, half-open,
like an old woman.

Darling, I
might whisper;
the revolution
looks lovely
in this hollow
light,

where cathedrals
crumble as though
plastic dollhouses,

and cobblestone
click-a-de-clack
reenacts the lacy
lullabies of my
childhood.

This is before the
war, before czarism,
before god.

This is before the
day breaks open, two
shells

as the wicker windowpanes
crack easily under the weight

of night

and before the sky
corrects itself
to a bloody blue.