The sun rises, again and again, the sun of
Yakutia,
that creaky, rusty globe.
And the ground shakes as the black gold, the green gold
is pumped out of it, as the sturgeon roe is canned
hand over fist, in three shifts
to feed the hungry mouth.
And far from here, far beyond the mountains
in every cast concrete apartment-shaped hole
where cardamom, where freshly ground coffee wafts,
where the fluorescent light buzzes,
where a solarium provides warmth and light,
every inhabitant, every smile stretched by starched collars
gets ready for the working day, audits, exercise
in the afternoon, long wet lunches.
