the crunch of ice
beneath our felt-lined boots
is satisfactory as we waltz -
the pitiless firmament above us
within us a pitiful poverty of ethic
and a plenitude of pepper vodka

the neva is so lovely tonight
we fall asleep in the snow
"god, if there is a god,
save our sould if we have souls"

and
dream of angels who do not help
but laugh as we ascend a staircase
baroque and decadent
at the summit of which
there is the reflection of possibility
and an absence of light