In Rasputin’s day it could have been with wine,
the intermingling of magic and mayhem, ribbons
of blood, a drowning of senses. For some it was
nuclear winter and monkeys launched into space,
gymnasts and chess masters with dizzying moves,
depressed masters of fiction in itinerant bloom.
Once in a Moscow apartment I had twelve shots
of vodka over dinner, skipping every other tumbler,
a light weight in oblivion, laughter, and freezing
rain. Your phone has the might of a Bolshevik
when you are lost in multiple screens, windows
shorn between estates of big lies and tiny spies,
what your cramped fingers and the raw feet
of ballet dancers have in common after the show.