Le Festin d'Ésope
Her fingertips give life to everything she touches, new and springtime
again with each sweet pad leaving each sweet print

And when she touches so regularly, methodically, a cool jump from her
hands to yours it is Creation because each cry is green tea and honey

And when her fingers catch in your hair you grow new roots and
now you are anchored, head-first into the ground

And when she plays you are sure that she has begot you with
her red-tipped hands and her Evangeline rhythms

She laughs: you are too sure about things

Piano Concerto No. 3
Moscow’s streets move you all diesel and crystalline chandeliers
when the water driven rope cables give rise to your discontent.

You are an engineer of the heart and so when you stop
it is the Lyublinskaya Line that opens it semi-chordial radius to you.

You end at the station whose brown braids and orange groves
were built by public subscription and the combination

makes you reel with hope for this girl, her dress
red and covered in your city’s achromatic dreams.