***
I hear the river
in tender white,
under the black
bridge
warmed by red city trams,
ironing
the silver rails
in -36,6 agony.
I care no longer but for one thing –
my hand
opens the white tunic,
delves deep into the snow,
and forces its way
between
the naked ice shores
of the Volga.
The icebreaker-ship, my palm,
clears its way
through frozen
waters,
follows the wind,
breaks towards,
I don’t know what,
but silent and certain.
The ice below
scatters
like a clowder
of frightened chicken,
bed-sized plates of ice
splinter
into my body
and under my fingernails,
some pieces got sucked under my eyelids
and explode out
with wet bangs.
I am rolling violently from side to side,
between the two banks of the great river,
making waves
shoreward,
shaking up the locked something
under the untranslated waters.
Am I to outthink the ice
or to outmuscle it?
The trick
isn’t
barbaric force.
It’s balancing my move
inside
the nature’s.
Still, you do need muscle.
At worst,
my icebreaker-ship will choke
within the white,
the best of this scenario –
my icebreaker will bulldozer
till the river sees spring.
Then,
I’d stop the engine
for a second
to hear the river
in tender green,
under the black bridge
wobbled by red city trams,
ironing
the silver rails
in +36,6 agony.
