Night
came galloping over hills
like
a troop of blue hussars
chasing
a wounded bear.
Sleighs
along Fontanka
split
the icy air.
She
told me last April:
Here’s
a perfect place to plant
a
garden of Pushkin sonnets.
This
morning she told me:
We’re
quits, and we don’t
need
to inventory a rash of stars.
White
horses slashed
ice
on Liteiny Street.
Muted
guitars pressed
cold
stilettos to our necks.
She
said someone—I think
the
moon’s footman—
kissed
my collarbone.
And
the tiered soldiers
sipped
their clean vodka,
humming
songs they didn’t know.
The
moon, master assassin,
came
out to pull a job.
Don’t
put on your sword, she said.
Don't
take part. You know
how
many snowflakes
it
takes to kill a heart.
I
was watching the horses
trample
acres of winter-hardy songs.
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