Why am I trailing you,
now through a pine-wood, now
through the words I write,
going nowhere fast?
There’s a gypsy encampment on the steppes,
newly moved in—sharp fires gone
by morning; the stamped ash
surrenders no clue or forwarding address.
I am in the pinewoods, trailing you.
There you were, like memory, a shackle.
Cling to me, you said.
Voronezh, January 1937