it’s 1991

i share an apartment

three of us, and our assorted

beloveds, none of them

natural friends, brought together

by our unilateral decree

these things can work

these are the days

foretold by paul simon

of miracle and wonder

glasnost and perestroika

and the fallen berlin wall

have us all stretching

up toward a sky now empty

of imminent flash and burn

we swoon to the new rhythm

of the saints, and dance

or we would, but

it’s the dead of winter

when war is declared

and in the rehearsal hall

the talk is all

what if this is the thing

that brings it down on our heads?

i still think of the farm

as a secret place, as far

away, my surety, if it gets to us

i’ll take the greyhound bus

out of the city, ahead of the troops

and live free

but i don’t bring this up

round the table, because

then i’d have to decide

who to take with me

who to leave outside

the real circle.