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.