Mac OLIVER

IN PETROPOLIS

His brain drowned, clocked by a concussion,
In blood. Myopic, the only topic of discussion
He'd had was his dream, in which Russian
Was the language of all literature, digression
Upon digression, swaggering, staggering Pushkin,
He saw himself as the Czar's pin-cushion.
Escape? From Scythia? That's not Ovidian,
Snow-bound on blank beaches, confusion
Ancient as the Euxine, night's meridian.
Proven withdrawn, upon, some dozen
Years later, return to Petropolis,
He grew entranced with the refection of his face
On the frozen Neva. He didn't need to be pushed in.

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