To survive, Siberia, or to survive Siberia:
neither seems possible. So cold, so boundless,
so wild there are parts as yet unnamed.

there was blue smoke    beyond the house a field
at day’s end    slow darkening
in the tall corn    our children scurried
invisible in the maze    voices absorbed  
by evening’s onset    their voices echo

You waited at the station entrance.
I was late. My hair had turned gray
but there you were, all the snow gone,
all the leaves blown, the leopard sun
having leapt across a life never lived.

A yacht at night strung with lights on the black
tide rolls to the rhythm of a trio playing
"Waltz for Debbie." The Milky Way looks on

you could arrange them as you wished
and change the ending of our story.

The lovers peer from hammocks of flesh
where time, subtle as a spider,
hoards them in its net.

And we were convinced in our ecstasy
that our father was eating us.

another cold and golden fall
and knowledge as to how to leave