New Leaves, Same Roots

Like a russian black they burn
red-blonde in the front
of the bus a bright light-skinned
tip in an otherwise uniform
fuliginous length, the secular
exotic on the one-one-five down
Barking road voices
crushed ice stirred in vodka
crystalline spiked with youthful
beautiful new immigrant
optimism.
They're on a journey smooth as
their flawless high foreheads
the backs of their unwrung hands.

Ignorance will not save them.
Out on the steppes the wolf howls.
In one guise or another his people
will know him.