I am on a bus headed to Chernobyl,where the ghost-town silence is
never broken by anyone but me.
The elephant's foot lies uncovered,
the sarcophagus long shattered,
and I cannot say I was not warned.
I know I should step back,
just far enough to drink
clear vodka with gray people
in summer wheat and red scarves.
To eat the tainted boar,
pick toxic fruit from hanging vine,
dip my hand into poison waters
and bring it to my mouth.
As I sleep on the blackest
Ukrainian earth, invisible fingers
with scientists' names
gently stroke my forehead
and prolong my dreams,
which do not end.
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