4 Poems
A Walk
Tracing lines turning
parallel chances
into relics in the rain
They flew and overflew
and refueled and reflew
and flattened temples
munition dumps, soba shops
intelligent turning of heads
elegantly falling petals
my feet are heavy
stomach light, hands sticky
umbrella bobbing east and west
like this music, pop songs
from a kids music box, all reborn
at the turn of a key.
And Pene lost his sense of smell.
How much an image
indelible in snow
I remember cartwheels
across the square
Everyone giving the wheel
a cold shoulder
The snow melts
only the footprints remain.
Dance, then
It came early
but was never
unexpected.
A light mist
to hover
over thought
This June, this July.
Out in the country
the frogs acroack.
Bishkek, or the victory of capitalism
It was only an opera
Nothing more than
a few kopeks here and there
A National Tale revealed
by the orchestra in the bar
between acts. Watch
them demolish a bottle
a bottle a group
a group six or eight
Slowly the woodwind
then the timpani
A right cacophany
By the end
even the strings
marched towards progress
One imagines divas
and virtuosos. More pastoral
than plastered.
The city a park
stretching over
pot holes and street vendors.
The orchestra leaves
on a truck packed
to the brim
Spilling over
with rusted metal
The principal export.
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