I ran through the streets
of Moscow as it rained
and tried to point out landmarks
in the shifty East: plagued by dreams
of a candy Petersburg and
bulging swollen onion domes
- like marshmallows about to pop
I ran on, invisible companions noted
my lack of planning and I could
freeze; the rain carried on more faces
wet that I should recognize forced its
way through my healthy drinking
fleece to the skin; alone in a
large room yet waiting all around in
rain calls with lights that
switched on with a tug at the
strings and lights played on
pinball machines, bathroom doors
not meant for me so this
is loneliness caught in solid
sleep, the realization of space among these furies,
as it rains through Moscow and I feverishly
search and notice landmarks that
do not exist; the rooms I
have lived in play through
my brain and I remember
desk, bed arrangements exactly
playing cards at midnight or later,
anxiety, these will be my dreams -
especially if I continue to write