Outside Moscow, 1815

It always appears to rise
Sharp after-the-Fire, the
Front and February, when
Even: some Spring,
Making delicate wind-chimes
Out of shattered
Blue-tinged glass, kicking thru' the
Music of Revolution and Conquest
A black-polished
Boot "To Arms!" "To Horse!"
To---
City Gates.
Metaphysical in any literal
Appearance the Gates of Europeanization,
Of some crazed-sane Monarch
Crying out: "I shall never
Yield!"

I shall never---
Yield.

Like Jackals among the
Bones, the shattering Hurt
Of Not-being-burnt of the
City Gates. Thru' the
Bomb-sight of Now, Capitals
Matter. Then, as it were,
Cities.
~ I shall never ~
Yielding to the co-incidental
Manner of Conquest. Of retribution.
The dead,
Clawing thru' the ice where
Tyrannies find the seed
To fall. How it binds and it
Does: the quixotic Russian
Language and the birth of Eastern
Poetry, the twisting
Knife of Time and Place.

Forty Thousand
Years
Look down
Upon us(you)them.

He pushes
His delicate boot thru'
The snow and colors
Bleed and colors
Fade and
A man
Is left the glass-cut Gates
Already
Imagining
Coded
History.

Forty thousand
Years.

Unyielding!