A Poem About Urban Moscow
Negative
A short walk from Paveletskaya,
I try to snap a picture of a new office
tower shimmering hard in the frigid sun,
its stone steps chapped from the cold.
It always seems impossible
to fit anything in this town within a frame,
to step away far enough to wrap
your eyes around it all,
the hulking brownstone memorials to an idea,
the crumbling kiosks bursting at the seams with
bottles and blinis, the thin young women negotiating
too deep potholes or three hour deals in five inch heels.
I get as much glass obelisk as I can and click
it for myself, a white-haired woman selling red
plastic toys from a broken bit of curb reflects
from within the otherwise faceless crowd.
