«No, I will not hide from the great mess / behind the coachman's back of Moscow; / I am hanging on the outside of a terrifying time, a moving bus. / I do not know why I live. You and I, we wall go to Avenues “A” and “B,” / and see who is going to die first — / Oh Moscow, she hudd...»
«My eyelash prickles — a tear boils up from my chest. / I’m not afraid. I know what’s on the calendar — a storm. / Someone marvelous is hurrying me on to forget everything. / It's stuffy here. It's boring how much I want to live. At the first noise I lift my head from the bunks. / I ...»
«Everything rests on your small shoulders: / the sidelong glances of conscience, / our dangerous, wolfish simplicity — / my words, like a drowned woman, are dumb. Red fins shining, red gills fanning, / their wondering mouths rounded in wordless / and famished O’s, the fish fin here and...»
«We live. We are not sure our land is under us. / Ten feet away, no one hears us. But wherever there’s even a half-conversation, / we remember the Kremlin’s mountaineer. His thick fingers are fat as worms, / his words reliable as ten-pound weights. His boot tops shine, / his cockroach ...»