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| or betrayal . . . It was always us wthout Providence, dearest illusion, how funny! bodiless souls taking pratfalls or curling up on the table like cats, lapping vodka as if there were no tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in in the dying clip-clop of the accounts . . . We rise reluctantly from wide Russia on the state, a pin- point of light now only a star . . . We're leaving them for life in the new Empire and the prospect of war.  | Philip Fried has published two books of poetry, Mutual Trespasses (Ion) and Quantum Genesis (Zohar). His work has been anthologized in What Rough Beast: Poems at the End of the Century and Poetry After 9/11. | |||
