It lies in a deserted patch of field,
in the bowels of Eastern Europe.
The face is looking up at the sky,
the cold eyes that can never rest.
Lenin, who said he didn’t want statues
built for him, who said you can’t make
an omelet without breaking a few eggs,
who begged to be let out of paying
a fine for not retuning books to the library.
Lenin, who paid so much attention
to his version of world history only to have
his personal history treated with disrespect.
How gloriously possible it must have seemed
in Zurich, cafes of beer and a mistress to boot.
The years well before the metal head
