To Boris Pasternak

Distance: versts, miles...
divide us; they've dispersed us,
to make us behave quietly
at our different ends of the earth.

Distance: how many miles of it
lie between us now—disconnected—
crucified—then dissected.
And they don't know—it unites us.

Our spirits and sinews fuse,
there's no discord between us.
though our separated pieces
lie outside
the moat—for eagles!

This conspiracy of miles
has not yet disconcerted us,
however much they've pushed us, like
orphans into backwaters.

—What then? Well. Now it's March!
And we're scattered like some pack of cards!
1925