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        Proven withdrawn, upon, some dozen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.

Copyright © Mac Oliver, 2000.  All Rights Reserved.