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83 White Night on the Neva To the one in steel-gray trousers, tambourine deaf, you refused to wave a surrendering skin. Awestruck as a sunflower, you slipped off far from him. A poplar cast the lightning of its shadow on crabgrass patched with snow, and your face diverged at mine. I have yet to learn the Russian names for weather, though we have swayed beyond the forecasts. First a stroll beside the river tugging itself to sea, all streetlamps moot. Then, at midnight, we watched tomorrow stop to preen in the wrinkled mirror, before leaping into yesterday. Even though the skies blacken sooner these miles and years from then, today we trace another water’s edge. Today, which I have come to call sevodyna. ...

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