Rachmaninoff and I in the Evening
Of Russia
we speak, of piebald
astrological charts,
doula's deep inside the paper
houses hindering poets with
bitten nail, we
alone on the porch
dappled – the evening
mustering as too many
aria's at once, a duet,

ebb of cicada flock,
bottling fireflies like lust
in jars, keep lids latched
tightly closed, watch the
spark evaporate into all the
more air; faintly illiberal
occipital lobes,

of Russia,
and the shape Rasputin's
body took in the Neva River,
of revolution, of the moderato,
peccadillo, the sunset
multi-tongued to taste our
specters, both with pen in hand,

I said I was of Russia,
you politely perspired,

declined to agree.