St. Crispin's Eve, at summer's apex.
Poets draw near (andante, Dante). Parallels
merge at the crown (a vein into the well
of vanishing). Within his vivid text
of sleep, Oblomov blooms. He mumbles home.
He is himself a drowsy drone; a summoner
tucked in a crib of absent blossoming
he translates bumble into honeycomb.
Yearning. Behold Oblomov, cusping late
into the moonshine (for a missive he misplaced).
The servant snores. The brazen paces
of a pendulum (tick, tock...) oblong his fate.
In slack forsaken gardens gone to seed
the Petersburgers gather to imbibe
neglected nectar. So that wayward tribe
welcomes the prodigal. Someone will read
from the uncanny text, a honeyed poison
for the ear, the tintinnabulation
of an iron age grown old, new wine
poured out across a motherland... so. Sewn
into her waspish, bitter osier (sil-
vered, oxidized). Forgive what I have written,
if you please - one catenary restitution
will excel the posh, lost horsemen. Smile.