The mad-eyed bloom of the <br />Fiery Russian poet <br />Incinerated by eternity’s fist <br />And fed to toy-sized sharks in the <br />Oversized aquarium <br />Of the studio apartment <br />Where the old-style yellow <br />Phone sits voiceless, <br />Without fingerprints for <br />Evidence— <br />Yet, by shivering moonlight and <br />Vodka on the lonely lips <br />On some 21st century kid <br />In the pale-horse light <br />And singular footsteps of <br />The hallway, <br />A reborn poet can test the <br />Depths, a bee-sized phoenix <br />Coming reformed for a few <br />Minutes, <br />Inches of hand-signals from the <br />Clock, <br />To be published in the middle of the <br />Sea <br />In the calm eye of an <br />Apoplectic hurricane <br />Which fortunately dies before <br />The drunken scientists can think up a name.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/arseny-tarkovsky/
