SAND UNDERFOOT
A mouse ran across a bridge
one winter, in Leningrad –
his name was little Vlad.
He had a key, which was his badge.
He wanted to be Czar one day.
It made things easier.
When life got crazier
he took control – things were okay.
The rubles flow from here to there
in pockets of his underwear –
he makes a face, to scare
the other wolves (the sheep won’t dare).
He liquidated people in the way.
It wasn’t always easy...
Scotland Yard (like Stasi)
fingerpoints (Polonium 1-A).
The light flutes in another realm –
coral reef of seraphim
& monks on mountain rim
(Kievan polyphonic Argo-helm).
A scattershot of goldfinch tunes
or chords of Marian
sis-diva Anderson
lift off cimetière dunes
Pushkin or Berryman would know.
Sparse salty grass.
Sand underfoot, hélas.
A Black Sea seething, as of long ago.
8.28.18
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