Books
Poetry/Lyrics
Essays
Zhivago
A dark leaf runs,
toyed by a winter's wind,
away from my grasp
towards the train
and my father's body
bent on the track.
In the dim room, I recall
only scents of candle smoke,
and notes of fruit wood,
a melody which winds
like cotton, around my wrists,
to touch beautiful Lara, then flee
ragged, a whip
of time singing sparks,
screaming steam
from mourning breaks
and shots of vodka
that ricochet past Komarovsky
like a snake of black
bent on the track.
I huddle on my tram,
which rattles like my old teeth,
and again touch her memory
which butterflies into words to write,
to fly, to her lost grave
and kiss that sorrow'd soil
where my dark leaf lies
on its broken back,
with my father's mistakes
bent on the track.
|
