24 giu 2020

As I didn't walk out one evening, March 20, 2020

The river is the Moskva
we take the underpass
and walk across the bridge,
it’s March, the two of us,

when we reach the river’s midst
the bridge divides in halves
just like outside this dream
the bridges on the Neva

we look into our eyes
we hold on very tight
but not to one-another
we clutch the metal rail

it rises slowly upward
it will take long to peak
while everything we knew
is more and more oblique –

gatherings of bell towers
statues of army generals
queueing for canned goods
queueing to get to hospital

if we see it all from here
oblique remains our look:
we don’t know what to promise
if we ever make it back –

hanging on, slightly apart,
we cling on to this deck
(just like outside this dream
your shoulder and my neck)

without knowing if or when
it will peak, halt, redeem,
if we’ll hold on, or why,
just like outside this dream.

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