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yevtushenko
in tulsa
the sky is a herd of cattle jostling
toward a green and endless horizon.
standing in front of a large house,
wide-rimmed hat on my head,
in comfortable shoes,
i look around at this place
in america: football stadium,
four-wheel drive, oil well.
steel glare under explosions of sun.
faded paint on a church, lawn
of bent grass.
i seem to be an old book, gray
and cool with dust, in the back corner
of a small bookstore, amid
the books of paintings, covers
blotted with red and blue, vermeer,
goya, chagall.
i look for a bench to sit on, a triangle
of shade: i am a spectator
watching groups of guests arriving
for the wedding.
i have brought no gift, no flowers.
the grass is a green bed
that whispers to me of sleep.
i
seem to be a rock fragment, obsidian
cutting tool, jade figures
round
and open-eyed with life,
arranged in rows in a museum drawer.
the sun pounds down with huge booming sounds
over the iron plains,
ice
breaks open in the siberian spring,
the beating of a human heart.
in faces of men and women, rough
as wheat, round as bread,
the knowledge to calculate water
and understand the stars,
in
the arms and legs of men and women,
in the voices of children,
the power of flight, the rebuilding
of the world. at the airport terminal,
the transcontinental airliner waits
in a humming dream of aluminum.
under the high sunlight
a
tumbleweed rolls across the runway,
skeleton of some creature from
a waterless sea.
standing in line or sitting
with bundles of luggage, looking
out the large windows filled
with
blue, faces open and cool
as pages of books, the passengers
gaze away across spaces vast
and earth-curved,
land populated with wind and
tree-covered mountain slopes,
cooler latitudes green with lakes.
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