THE MAYAKOVSKY POEMS (an exerpt)

Vlad, angle parking

Maria says I am clog-headed.
This is how she introduces me at functions,
formally. I am stubborn as I am good-looking.
We are going to the exhibition.

In the parking lot, Maria is backseat driving.
Keep going, she says. I prefer that I must say I prefer that spot.
We leave the car and walk toward the ferris wheel
which governs like a constellation.

The gilded horses and albino tigers
parade aloft in circuit.
Lift and descend like a mood, their breath
imminent as hot air balloons.

I chance my hand at roulette
for a stuffed rooster and a peck from Maria.
Her mouth is a revolution
that represents at least a thousand words I was not counting on.