the morning we woke to snow. Overnight
our yards had become marble, sculpted in peace
and apparent permanence.
Eisenstein created the Battle on the Ice
with tons of crushed alabaster and salt.
In August, in the Ukraine. I should think
set remains, sometimes crossed by rueful muzhiks
puffing papirosa like the mailed extra
whose like exhaust signified cold.
We have our own
stone clad landscapes, each one presented as if
it stood for the real thing, a convoy of substance
from the Ministry of Film.
we have our elections and investments,
stages set with alabaster or ice.
They seem alot alike.
So many swear
to stone in tribal chants, that you deny
at the risk of heresy or, worse, betray
your ignorance, though the first thing that melts
the next day's sun is the memory of what
everyone knew would stay the same for years.