Vladimir Nabokov

Nabokov Dying: A Golden Shovel

By lamplight of a febrile dream, I
Saw the house in Ithaca where we lived
In fifty-seven. We sat out on
The unmown lawn at night. Moths flew
Between white moons of dandelions. And on
Your blouse you pinned a firefly and in
Your hair a dark Vanessa closed the
Book of its wings. Darling, your eyes reflected
For an instant my face, then nothing but sky.


Matthew Roth