man, watch, and gun.
a deaf man presses his cold palm
against the shining lunar silver
of a watch, chain coiled around
his left index finger. bullets hit
the wall in rapid procession.
first the poet falls and then
the jewish woman with gray eyes.
nothing is sacred beneath stalin’s
chin ,and the rivers are dammed
with legs and elbows. brown shoes,
beige jackets, and the uniformity
of petrified faces before the firing rounds.
he wonders what dostoevsky felt right before
the czar’s reprieve arrived and his hands shook
in awe of the inevitable. he wonders if
the writer was a window into himself,
if he could see his future, a bucket of cool water
poured into the sludge of street gutter.,
daylight bouncing off tinctured glass,
dreams burning with the fiery
resonance of unwritten poems.