poem: conclusion

old man Rodya, or at least the bent-over version Sonya retrieves
from the railway station, neck shortened into fur coat, hands
open secrets or frost-lite spiderbites splayed over
her traveling coat, as he steadies himself against her, says well
what is there to say. train sneaks in, awning over them, dawning
of little smile: she says, well, hopefully a great deal; first let’s
get you a good meal and a shave. his overgrowth is reminiscent of
shriveled fish, the cell split open, the river
strips, bars raining down: she says you are not old yet; I should
hope Christ is kind if you are deserving; people in heavy coats
shuttle around them, invisible dance of the far out, even the canvas
awning is frozen. Rodya, eyes stricken with the inferno-
fallout of all his previous days, standing in the street staring
at his university, spoon-fed in the rented room, and the things we
cannot say: in Russian, as everywhere, they do not speak
secrets, they say honey eater instead of bear.