When will Vysotsky send us screaming out our whispers
stumbling across the floor on our knees in absolute
grace of seeing our faces in the reflection of a pool,
sureness, unforgiving pursuit of bloodred yes, self,
to dance without being sold as a marionette,
Baryshnikov’s triumphant fist in the air of silent Kirov
spinning, fetal, reaching, anguish of unstretched limbs,
to run, to run wild and ungated