Let us wait by the river that
rinses the coloured beads of street-lights:
from You throw your head back, 1916, Marina Tsvetaeva
INSOMNIA: Varia on reading Tsvetaeva
We scratch at the snow
that has closed our eyes
What did I know about peasants
carrying knives in their boots or of the earth
Those that lay trampled, their mouths
filled with gadflies when summer came finally.
The snow melted from emptied eyes,
water ran down whitened bone too late for the eyes
to see what had been done.
And still, the Kremlin is improbably coloured
and at night in summer, the Moscow River runs
grey and still
holding our reflections coolly,
for a time.