One hundred archers stood on Sadovaya—
one by one they fired their arrows,
each completely orbiting the garden ring,
like golden satellites,
Before exploding into summer mist.
In my dreams I’m releasing arrow after arrow into the sky,
waging war against the clouds,
and arrow after arrow falls straight onto the top of my head.
I wish there was some logic here—
in the way the cars drift slowly across the bridges
and my scarf flies off my head.
But a poem is a road and a river is a road,
and there’s not much left to say.