There is Pushkin, a collection of bones:
A translation for you—by T.E. Smith-Jones.
It is rumored you and I had an affair.
We spoke. More than Pushkin’s poetry was there.
I cannot say what happened—only the bare bones:
Pushkin in the English of T.E. Smith-Jones.
All prose is the same, but in a variety of tones
verse evinces—life, life! Not only the bones
of translated Pushkin by T.E. Smith-Jones.
Can I tell you how we loved? I cannot.
My prose chased verse to a disappearing spot.
I tried to write a poem, but T.E. Smith-Jones
stands on the stairs in the dark and moans.