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Along the west bank of the Ob

A horrible tangle of steeples

You'd've seen them from the boat

Before it came unglued, leaving

You among the older voices

Those tired waters, waitresses,

Artists, anteaters, all sorts of shades

Mixing indecorously in that deep

Its kind of Jamesian cares,

As if another replica of the self

Were rising, but this time in city

Among cocktail markets, Soho

Its proud, and another its champion

There among ruins, along

Chemical stashes, one by one

Roaming their ended tubes

And all this as if reflected

In that child's shy eyes, poor dead

The wildness is what freezes

The sense of unbearable difference

Among the rocks of the bank

That and the inclement slipperies

It has its own kind of church

What I mean is an arrow-eyed preacher

The sense of yearning, yet

What is with all this water, in which

We seem to have found ourselves?