If there is such a thing as Glasnost
for fingers pecking a column left headline
or Perestroika for the beet farmer
who wakes before the rooster
and falls asleep to a vodka moon
then how can we explain
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Svetlana:
In leather boots and hot pants.
Hair as blond as wheat, eyes as blue
as cobalt, curves like naked bronze—
only twenty grand
and she’s yours?
This all leads one
to think if Tolstoy wrote
Master and Man version 2.0
Would Vasili
save Svetlana from this
blizzard of human cupidity?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem