St. Petersburg The sidewalk's arm whose elbow lies akimbo along the curb spreads iron fingers out to hold the low-barred bridge the tall ships limbo under on the Nevá that wraps about the city, belt-like, part of it as though Petersburg'd been there ever since that river first etched her granite banks, or as if her flow had only grown with what the city'd give her. Where Pushkin walked apartments are dank with crumbling the beggars are mementos of the yellow and red flag raised on the palace. Ambling but broken denizens command a tear. There's a graveyard's burn where the old grandmothers mourn.