LETTERS TO YESENIN: 16 by JAMES HARRISON

Today we've moved back to the granary again and I've anointed the room with
@3Petrouchka@1. Your story, I think. And music. That ends with you floating
far above in St. Petersburg's blue winter air, shaking your fist among the fish
and green horses, the diminuitive yellow sun and chicken playing the bass drum.
Your sawdust is spilled and you are forever borne by air. A simple story.
Another madman, Nijinsky, danced your part and you danced his. None of us
apparently is unique. Think of dying waving a fist full of ballpoint pens that
change into small snakes and that your skull will be transposed into the cymbal
it was always meant to be. But shall we come down to earth? For years I have
been too ready to come down to earth. A good poet is only a sorcerer bored with
magic who has turned his attention elsewhere. O let us see wonders that
psilocybin never conceived of in her powdery head. Just now I stepped on a leaf
that blew in the door. There was a buzzing and I thought it concealed a wasp,
but the dead wasp turned out to be a tiny bird, smaller than a hummingbird or
june bug. Probably one of a kind and I can tell no one because it would anger
the swarm of naturalists so vocal these days. I'll tuck the body in my hair
where it will remain forever a secret or tape it to the back of your picture to
give you more depth than any mirror on earth. And another oddity: the record
needle stuck just at the point the trumpet blast announced the appearance of
your ghost in the form of Petrouchka. I will let it repeat itself a thousand
times through the afternoon until you stand beside the desk in your costume.
But I've no right to bring you back to life. We must respect your affection for
the rope. You knew the exact juncture in your life when the act of dangling
could be made a dance.

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