Dostoyevsky on his bier, drawing by Ivan Kramskoi, 1881

Eastern Wind

I feel an eastern wind, brisk,
the hint of clouds, the scent of snow,
like a Dostoevsky winter settling
the whistle of trains on long iron rails
down the caravan path to revolution,
reds and whites, the holly berries,
stained fields littered with corpses
flesh melting under clouds of hungry flies
an offal pit of fates, Moirai,
sweetened by the perfume of evolution.

Out there, a web of leafless limbs
dancing skeletal burlesque, like Pharisees
the white washed tombs of imminent winter;
and John the Baptizer rants, “Repent,”
while yielding soberly to a passing schoolbus,
mass of sprung curls pressing penitently
against the tonsured ceiling of his
Volkswagen Bug, hand hovering over
the horn, ready to slam it, blaring
at Children toddling in their cross walks.