I think that "Rusalka" is at last ready. I have edited the piece to a point of satisfaction, if not contentment.



RUSALKA

my eyes
lap at
the sluggish white shroud
of water
(at white lips, at
your white comb of teeth).

Is the water’s murmurous wisp

the sough
of your limpid throat—
or the stark vespers
of the firs?—Oh—
past the cloistral trees
the wind gnaws
at the steppe,
at the green heart,
and cold things sob
among the stones—

The black water is your palace gate,
the white froth your crystal arch.
Am I not your Kiev prince, the shanty against your wall,
the courtier in your hall,
the hart upon your fire?