St Petersburg Blues

The River Neva swims like an epic tale

Towards the zinc-gray Baltic. 

And you speaking Russian

To a woman on the bridge,

Blonde hair wisping in wind,

Are radiant and remote. And I

For once not failing to know it,

Spit down into a funneling whirlpool 

And long to be home where I, sipping

Strong American coffee,

Can finally long alone.