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December dreams come in a crazy rush, in

nights on strict regime.

And no longer I, but a relief map of Russia

stretches over the mattress springs.

My piter protrudes from flat pillowland –

how could my pose be so awkward?

First my vilnius starts itching, my kiev then bitches,

then my crimea wants to go walkies.

My left flank hurts, where the kama plays

via my chilly uralian armpit,

and slowly, slowly counts off the days

being served by poor Misha Meilakh.