I'm going to read the-- yeah, I hadn't planned to read this.
But this is a poem called "Home from Russia."
I wrote the poem before I went to Russia.
But sometimes, I find that I write poems
in anticipation of experience.
I've been reading about a book on plant biology.
And that's how the poem started.
And I ended up thinking about coming back from Russia
before I'd even go on.
"Season of Calypso, winter and the solitary leaf.
I've just returned from Moscow.
And they were there, a great many people.
While I was away, leaves fell, and another dark November.
It has all happened before.
And at this moment in Leningrad, a taxi
rumbles through almost empty streets.
Night has fallen, the rain stopped.
I slam the door of the cab.
My shoes skim over the glistening pavement,
trying to catch me."