SOME SEVERAL HUNDRED TIMES, I RANG IN NEW YEARS IN OSTANKINO

GEORGE KOVALENKO

They’ll build a television tower here.
From the top, you’ll be able to see
both halves of the known universe
on fire.
They built a wooden palace here,
themed pavilions, one of the largest
—standing— in the world.
They hosted masquerades.
The first time, I came as
a minor deity of less-than-stunning
sunsets. Then, once time
had played its whack-a-mole
with all my kind of numen,
as a talking cat,
then as a clot of earth
that trotted over from another continent.
The hundredth time
we had a date,

I looked for you
through the Palladian windows,

but you were sitting
in the cranny of the century,

riding its clockwork

high above everything

warping

down below.

Here’s me, here’s you,

here are the bits and bobs that make so little sense,
and over there, an even and impossible vantage.

GEORGE KOVALENKO is a poet whose work has appeared in Colorado Review, Crazyhorse, The Cincinnati Review, Ninth Letter, Yalobusha Review, and elsewhere. He has received support from the Saltonstall Foundation for the Arts, holds an M.F.A. from New York University, and is a Ph.D. student at the University of Denver. An Associate Editor for Tupelo Quarterly, he lives in Denver.