The marauding puppet show before me
chases chariots into dew drops
and your slippered sunrise
makes my sunset reckoning
fold into the shapes of doves
departing from the olive tree.
Delighted by the charcoal snake charming
and the foothills of ivy shadows,
I delve deep past the obvious
and into the echoing chambers
of felonious thinking.
You so graciously sculpt the bones
and I humbly start to write
on the ivory skeleton
of vertical Moscow latitude.
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