The starkness of a Russian winter
cracks apart into spring in a forest as
somber as petrified peasants as
Stravinsky's symphony swells
the ancient melody rising a Phoenix
amongst the frozen chords.
A snowflake on the glass, you said.
Maybe Lenin is smoking German tobacco
waiting for Warren Beatty to hail the Red
proletariat while the bourgeoisie
listen to Carly Simon sing She's so vain
on old radios as we snuggle close
dressed in greatcoats and mufflers,
the taste of black tea on our tongues.
The precision of the steam train pounds
like percussion in our ears as we
shiver and freeze in dank clothes
trying to recall a line from Dr. Zhivago
that didn't make it past the censors.
For it is said, that Stalin and Steinway
in an ice rage of splintered feelings,
sound pretty much the same.