lake
coming home from the village’s barrelhouse
mato fell into a ditch drunk
and slumbered in the snow
meridians of his travelogues
fell out of his hat
and sunk into the depths of the soft snow
drawing on the icy cushion
a unique map of the world
four continents on which
he drove wild horses
sprang up underneath the dry snow
volga’s delta slopped over
right under his head
and he dreamt of the fishermen
in the caspian sea
throwing the nets
filling them with rare specimens
gigantic belugas and sterlets
carelessly awakening
the creatures petrified at the bottom
the largest lake
mato always told the neighbors
its waters never flow out
he never married
had children
nor grandchildren
and had he
maybe he would’ve run faster and bolder
like startled cattle
when the water snakes surfaced
and dragged him down
to the bottom
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