Good Woman

Alexei, Alexei dear, good-
ness vile.
Dear Alexei, why,
we’ve a son.
Autumn-winter, dear,
where’ve they gone?
Alexi Alexivich,
it’s July again.

As steam hisses, shoot
fills up the eyes,
as ice thaws
in the summer sun,
as cities appear
and fall behind,
I am riding, riding, dear,
a wild horse.

The veil, the veil, Alexie,
of knowing not
what’s good, what’s bad,
in whose land?
What’s harm, what’s sin, what is love?
Who hasn’t loved yet
in Moscow-Milan?

It’s a dilemma —
or is it not:
what a heart wants,
and wants it bad?
A moribund heart,
a housebound heart;
I am Scherzo, Alexei,
I am Majorca dance.

The opera star —
the chase of a rake.
Such love a love a’ways
wants to be.
A flawless love,
an ageless love.
Boundless, careless
till eternity.

Who can have it, dear,
and not pay the price?
Can we have it, 
have it all?
Neither you, Alexiei,
nor I can.
You, a coward,
I, for other reasons.

As my hopes faint
so do the stars.
I am galloping, galloping
in a starless night.
What is living
if not in searing pain?
Searing, searing
is my flight.

And when this old mare
breaks her spine;
aimless, loveless,
smeared and stained;
bring her quietly back
in an oak coffin;
in a black, whistling
James Watt train.