Abacus

Envoi

Well, the rain cleared
and left day on the panes, cloud-light
scattered pearl stringlets...

How many eyes had wept, then?
On how many stilled cheeks had the drops lain
all ever-night in rimed war?

we asked in our derangement,
far traveled as the sun over Mundus,
unfriending rifts of dream-deep
further than Moscow knows.