228. MOSCOW (1980)

MOSCOW
(1980)
Snare the difference, causing blind-eye
vacant stares. All along the roadway,
the peasants are busy - washing their pots,
cleaning their clothes, whistling for horses.
There is a fire in every pit; meat roasting,
potatoes close to crisp, and, everywhere,
the singing of closed eyes. Vodka passes
itself off as real. The scene is one of Winter,
always. The sky is passing close.
-
Wear those clothes that matter - keeping oneself warm
is what counts today. The lines of mud routinely
close the road. Mired lamplights are cut to waxen
images; black lines along the ceiling. These portend
the favorite war, still forever fighting. Ice, and fire.
The final storyline, the end.
-
Without reason, whatever grows - prospers.
Thick and leafy green, the lettuce is carried in
from the south and piled on tabletops,
with old bitches crying out: 'the eggplants
and squash are the best!' And everywhere else,
liquor-of-fire on everyone's lips. The towers,
with blinking red lights. That is Moscow:
far away, so close to zero, so near to the end.