lebyakin's swansong (part 12)

strange thievery in the air.
calculator from seventh period.
ipod from a red convertible, netbook
from my living room. things
not valued. valuable money, for the weak.

the gods the gods the gods. i met a russian
lion, he was a fair nurse, not a guy
who set mice free, who chewed through ropes he
brushed the leaves of his night blooming sirus
let the strands of his daughter's hair
root in his fingers. there was not much
i could be for the man who wasn't there, he'd

let soundtrack into his bed and she kept him there.
back pain and indigestion. sweeping death out the door
all day long, i left a stain on his carpet, but not
much in his eyes. once i thought i saw him
but the wall shivered opaque, casting his hands
into shadows of ravens flying east. i was too earnest
by half, he was too hip to be bold.

but he'd loved once. yes he had. stepan trymanovitch-
avoided that fate, he did. he married her. the lass the girl
with a bottle of whimsy. liza he called her. moi malenkai babushka
he sighed and cleaned her with his tongue. she ran her fingers
thru his mane and plucked the hairs out one by one.

after that there was not much left to say. she took the baby
the cave was sold. he met a rebound, tried it all again, with
different sets but the same outcome. that's my cue.

i said to the man who wasn't there, dyosh vedanya.
to my surprise he nodded back, through time delay
and the collection of signs. we did a minuet. kissed
twice on each cheek. tightened the nooses round
each other's necks to stay warm. it was time to move
on the tundra of the bed. frank zappa and several
wine spills tried to warn us, but there was no danger.
we both knew it was just a little detente in the snow.