As the ferry turns
in the harbor, a Russian
mother chats on her cell,
her kids giggling at the gulls
laughing in their own
Russian gibberish, at our
sudden uneasy buoyancy,
we are all drunkards,
Karamazovs freed from the
certainty of the shore's
firm language.
As we slide past the jetty
a cormorant spreads his black wings:
an omen! We enter Death's Door,
a terrible passage! Who will
place coins on our slavic
tongues? Who will carry us
to the island of dreamers
and lotus eaters, the lyrical
sirens and pagans of desire?
No comments:
Post a Comment