«In the country of yellow nettles / the twig fences are brittle / the log houses huddle like orphans / into the pussy-willows through fields over the hills’ blue / by the greenness of lakes / a road of sand leads to the mountains / of Siberia Between Mongols and Finns Russia / is lo...»
«Wind whistles through the steep fence / hides in the grass / a drunk and a thief / I’ll end my days / the light sinking in red hills / shows me the path / I’m not the only one on it / not the only one / plowed Russia stretches aw...»
«I am the last poet of the villages / the plank bridge lifts a plain song / I stand at a farewell service / birches swinging leaves like censors The golden flame will bum down / in the candle of waxen flesh / and the moon a wooden clock / will caw caw my midnight On the track in the blu...»
«They are drinking here again, brawling, sobbing, / to the amber woes of the accordion. / They curse their luck and they hark back / to a Russia — a Moscow — of other days. For my part, I duck my head, / my eyes foundering in wine, / rather than look fate in the face, / I think of so...»