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To take a Russian leave
To travel backwards, leaving out no
station. To gather all the details
and wipe them one by one off the train’s window
like misted-over, empty images. To erase
the envelopes’ addressees, empty the mailbox,
delete the computer’s memory,
crush the phone. To burn every note taken,
all sketches, scribblings, manuscripts. When ready,
to sit down a bit the Russian way before the road.
The basket is fastened, the droshky
with the blanket waiting,
the jade harnessed. Humble yourself, proud man!
Then look out once more on the rooftops across the street.
Tranquility used to dwell in this view. To say
good-bye to them. To stand up, rinse the table and shelves
thoroughly. To go away without leaving readable
traces: this way the true story of the road you covered
is preserved perhaps. Because death takes back
nothing, only changes things: this sentence I once