April 30th In Moscow

When it actually ends and
It is the Same,
Always then, Nothing is
Or gained.
Like a sluggish shadow
Over the Whole of Multicolored
Languages and
Fronts it is April
In Moscow, tho' for only
One More Day. When
Even photographs yield
Moving figures and half-discovered
Truths which are not
Truths and which are…lie
Only in the snow of drifting Blossom
Storms crowding the quick
Sidewalks and cracked-over curbs, the
Hidden Tombs…or exposed. Either
Way, sallow, waxy-skinned.
If here it Ends
(as it does and must), well save enough
and know enough in
the first Place, and there
will be more to Moscow then
Stalin's ruined statuary. In this
Sort of atmosphere, rotted
Remains of Dynastic evidence.
April in
How can it be Missed
If it never Was…the cracked
Buildings and Empty
Factories and the truth (or the remainder) of Battles waged at City Gates, and every-so-often,
Another mortar-shell falls,
The ambling sounds of
Automobiles, the young planning another Revolution,
And the some-odd flashes of
Cameras .
It is April in Moscow,
And April in Berlin
And April in London
And April
But only Today, then that Certain, Muscovite
Kind of Snow will dissipate
To the center of an
City still rife with so much
Hidden Past.