Sonya And Saint Petersburg

The river keeps her company

as she walks the old street.
                           Her eyes

handing tears

to the air, already damp
and smelling of pungent flowers.

Mist falls behind

like a bridal veil, sheer
          with threads fraying into faint light;

and somewhere on the outskirts

of evening and  the city
                        a young man’s shadow
                         patches the cracked cement
of a prison wall.

In her dreams

he always faces the corner,
                    cold water
                   rushing over  fallen branches
and unlevel ground
outside.

In her dreams,

she  marries the current,
jumping into something better or worse
                  and leaves sorrow standing
on the dike. Her place marked
by two cobblestones
                    matching the size

                    of a woman’s tiny foot.