Under a canopy sky
a man settles down
a plastic apron on.
As the train slips away
evenly, a ghost is left back on the tracks,
I open the window,
glance into the courtyard,
at the statue of Kirov.
The Marshall as usual is raising his hand:
Greetings, People
Hello-Hello, fellow Communist Party members.
The pigeons shitting on it
belong to this land,
not to the hand that is hiding
the clouds with its greeting,
while flies attack a fruit stand,
and melons spill from a pile,
and armor-plated bursts
flash from the hill here,
the sun is rising,
and at the other window,
there’s a sound
settling over that land.
A new, nearly-red sound.
It flies in through the window.