In The Beginning

people are for sure dancing

somewhere with scrolls. My calendar

says, and it’s not like I don’t know.

In this bar, nobody rolls

anything but eyes backwards

and the glasses are raised to less

transcendental causes. We’re talking

Lukacz and ex-girlfriends. Leo got no

assimilated idea, laughing with disbelief

when I tell him. I come

back to the library, picking up random

books off the Slavic shelf, checking on

all the diligent girls in the lounge.

In Shklovsky’s hands, voices separate

from narratives like neat flesh-colored ribbons

for another few hours. I wonder over

to the subway, returning home long

after bodies rolled up in their blankets.

Dawn’s rubbing hands, ready to crack

dreams. Theirs, in the end, mine –

in the beginning