Once, in Berlin, I met Vasily Grossman.
Surrounded by a ring of dying flame,
his glasses two full moons, he shook my hand
and smiled as if I were his oldest friend.
A tall blond corpse lies rotting in a field—
white daisies twine around the polished boots
and dried blood trickles from the Roman nose,
the stiffened hand still clutching a revolver.
I dug a skull up one September day
and asked whom it belonged to, how it got there—
but it was silent. A butterfly took wing
from deep inside its endless empty eye.
A happy and a sweet new year from all
who outran history to those who didn’t.
Write me a telegram from Pluto’s realm
and I’ll send back pressed flowers for Proserpine.