«Us few. Perhaps us three — just — / Blazing and infernal from Donets / Stuck beneath gray racing crusts / Of rain, clouds and Soviets / Of soldiers, poems and debates / About transportation and the arts. We were people. Now we’re epochs. / As time overtakes us in a rush of coaches...»
«The slanting pictures fly in like streaming rain / From the roadway where candles are snuffed, / But on their hooks and walls I’m unable to train them / To fall into line with feet and rhymes. But what if the universe were just — a mask? / Such that in certain latitudes, / Winter caus...»
«You are engrossed in ledgers, / In plans and tragic policies, / You who once sang to the brink / The Flying Dutchman with your verse. A storm swelled at your canvas tent / And roared, intensifying, / Until you, wing d still, descended / At last to walk beside me again. And now you slog...»
«For Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Zalshupina Why must life put up with such eccentrics / As every day for a small token / It passes for revue over the abyss / Hurrying from Potsdam as the sun goes down? He passes out roses and mignonettes / From a basket, at the cornerstone that he rents, / Whe...»