Apricot jam

Now, when Siberia and Mongolia are still an act of
imagination,
and the noise of the train on snow frozen tracks
strums a lament for Zhivago,
and Tolstoy and Dostoevsky have words to spare for
love,
and yearning and longing,
and there is continuous caviar and vodka and the
everlasting samovar …

I conjure toast, with apricot jam and butter, to appear, magically, in the dining car,
as ten thousand kilometres are sliced by changing
time zones,
that put breakfast at midnight.

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