the Russians love my poems, the sounds their mouths
form around letters they don't understand, they are melodic
in their babushkas and fast internet connections for the Politburo
they write their words in candlelight, a glass of cheap vodka in hand,
a half smoked cigarette dangles from her lips as she massages
the left calf of her illicit lover who has to leave soon for
his office where he can massage the right calf of
his illicit lover as they write poetry together.
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