When Russia was tropical
wine-drinkers stood, half-naked on the beach
like flamingos—on one leg or the other

                   or so I was told; an inexpensive import. The grapes only fell
because I shook them, for 50 roubles an hour—there were no beaches
when Russia was tropical.

On the day he tripped                each grape in the vineyard was the weight of an eyeball
when he landed in the path of the harvester  and what happened happened    leaving him to  stand
like a flamingo, on one leg—no other no other

                         and the heat was dizzy. It was blind. But I saw him. His face, red and capable
and flinching. On a smoke break, I watched his eyes      roll      twitch as the harvester took his arm but mostly leg into its teeth
when Russia was tropical.

                   It was a shredding thing that drove me back North.
There were not enough cigarettes. On one leg I watched him watch after us who left
like the saddest flamingo in Russia. With no other.

I did not know his name. And they on the beaches (whose bathing suits were reversible
who reddened fashionably) did not want it nor his flinching face, that man who made the grapes fall
who twitched and rolled and crushed the fruit who lifted the barrels who lay ragged and gasping
with his eyes peeled in the red-soaked dirt—we must stand
like flamingos—with only one leg
when was Russia tropical.