The cobblestones have been cleaned of blood.
With the sun they almost shine in the morning.

Three young women walk in Pushkin’s steps.
Mapping their way around the palace.

Shouts from on top of frozen water.
The others are running in the wrong direction.

Where are we going through the deep snow?
Deep through the snow where everyone goes.

I have seen these faces in silent movies,
brushing against a Cossack’s blade.

I have listened for horses coming up the street
and the tiny knocks on apartment doors.

I have run my fingers along the window-ledge,
looked for heads split open like water melons.

Where are we going deep through the snow?
Through the deep snow where everyone goes.

Past the girls out walking towards the port,
pulled my collar tight when I heard the bullets.

I have held my breath against the frozen wind,
waiting for the air to be light and clean.

I have left my initials on the frosted glass
of galleries and stations from here to Siberia.

The cobblestones have been cleaned of blood.
With the sun they almost shine in the morning.