Dreamers.

in mosscow
she wakes up
every early morning
dawns paler
more suffocating
than a dead man's palm
morphs into the quite
  of unrequited dreams.
her gray skirts sweep the floor
her hair, glued to her head
ill with morning fantacies
then her father awakes
her mother
her little rummaging brothers
pumped with gruesome energy
morning coffe
omelet
news paper
stifling mundainity.
afternoon
hard labor
Oleg Distofsky
fishing
his biceps clinch
he turns to her
his beard a little thicker
than last monday
she manages to smile this time
breaking a bit
little ever changes
nothing like the daily revolutions
of poetry.
russia is grand
and she can hardly contain the ground
that almost swallows her
and Oleg goes fishing
with his navy jacket
nothing ever changes
from the ashes of burnt dreams
she lays on her nightstand
to the scattered ones
of tomorrow's
milk-like pasty dawn.