Like mad Russian poets

we converse with the moon


when we're drunk and forget

every word when we're sober


Years and years and years of prose

and the ecstatic response


so brief, yet it's almost enough.

Success is therefore inadequate:


Modernity's a businessman

tortured by its crazy Russian soul


Is there enough vodka left

in all of Siberia


to change us into Pushkins for a second?

Once poets could get drunk on water


Even some businessmen listened.

Progress: drugged, we need drugs


to rise above our prose hometowns,

find even for a moment that


which turns our steeples upside down

as we dance light-to-light with the moon.


Thomas Dorsett