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To Vladimir Orlov's previous piece

I Will Send My Message Collect

I will send them all the torn-out copies
of my last message collect,
as I stand breathing in the sight
of the frozen silver, its faulty light
fettering the river’s glassy ice.
My memory, in its inveterate longing 
to plunge into the sweet water of hope,
is being thrown to the gusty summit
where regiments of ghastly ghosts gather
to perpetrate their ghoulish parade.
Time rumbles down the bumpy street
of my crumbling consciousness, as
I am being effectively run down by its heavy cart
which used to stop at my beck and call before,
but which now will positively not,
even if I vociferously plead with it.
Days are being sipped out of me,
with relish, by the subtle connoisseurs
of the delicious wine of time and age.
I will send them all the torn-out copies
of my last message collect. 

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