Russian Family: A Love Poem

Four blond heads bobbed
and bumped in a rhythmic
congregation on tonight's
sad, ageless train-ride home.

But only one of those heads
struck my fancy, called out
to me as muse or death, it
being of course in her height.

My exhaustion was taking
me over in its root-like
sense, so thank god for
those four archaic crags.

They kept up their own peaks,
all dashed upon with slick, snowy
coverings, while the valley
between us, that long aisle,

teetered, a dreadful slide
for the conductor and his
uglies. My own head sat up,
my eyes glowing red like rubies,

or red like fresh deer peaking up
from a dense smother of
mud, the banks a quirky success
where Spring has defeated frost.

The two stones for eyes
implanted into my skull gazed
forever at the Russian daughter,
she late 20s, beauty too preserved

through her yellow, posing
reflection, the train's windows
glaring as does the sun, or
blue icicles, all dim tales of

distortion and vice, but
so well formed one may never
forget, a visual match to each
gray consonant of her speech.