A Poem for the Middle of May

For the Desiccation of my Poetry

Who are all those people sitting there all green

On the map of Russia, the wide extended land,

Who read my poetry—I’ve never seen

Such numbers mounted up.  I feel the hand

Of destiny has pulled me out of hell

Into some paradise of fame—or worse,

Some other place where critics lurk, who smell

Me out the weakness of my thoughts in verse,

Who chuckle in that vast confederation.

Perhaps they seek me out for something sinister,

As though I were the very personification

Of Jewish gloom, my facile words administer

The coup de grâce in that struggle between fate

And history, tears and laughter, fig and date.