V
Sometimes, in the long-lost continent
of an hour, my oceangoing vessels drift
back to port, their scented oils lost,
luscious cargoes turned to dust,
their hulls a pandemonium of echoes
that creak like bark ripped off a living oak.
Then, missing you, my heart recites
the full alphabet of longing, and I dream
of passion whisking us in its gleaming sleigh
across the cold flat glacier of the night
to a small dacha, where we feast like tsars:
moon on the half-shell, a side order of stars,
far from familiars, work, time or costume.
Love’s mansion has so many rooms.