Muff
when you are digging in the wardrobe
or in the dictionary and toward you
it falls, you begin to think of cave
bear and megaloceros, of the fumes
of moth powder, mites, primeval
extinct things in dioramas:
muff, its single, furry syllable
with the weight of russian novels
where the princess says some word
that escapes you, her cabbage-white-
butterfly-hands hidden in warm hide
while the sled glides across the great
estates, through snow-covered plain
and taiga, with its bells, still ringing
and their glad nightingale song
which fades and you alone remain
behind, with nothing but verst
after verst of darkness, these fiercest
of winds and deepest permafrost
under which the heavy mammoths rest.
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