“[Persecution mania] is still around. In your writing, in your exchanges with people, meeting people who are in Russian affairs, Russian literature, etcetera.”

Everything has its limit, including sorrow
A windowpane stalls a stare; nor does a grill abandon
a leaf. One may rattle the keys, gurgling down a swallow.

Wind from the northwestern quarter is lifting him high above
the dove-gray, crimson, umber, brown
Connecticut Valley. Far beneath,

“Well, what’d you dream of this time, Gorbunov?”
“Oh, mushrooms, mostly.” “Mushrooms! What the hell!
Again?” “Again.” “You really make me laugh.”

Down in the lobby three elderly women, bored.
Take up, with their knitting, the Passion of Our Lord
        As the universe and the tiny realm