Air is a secret
and space
is utterly without charm.
In the tower insects
fallen on opal tables.
Someone is whistling.
I saw the victim move in his heart;
it was not enough to save him.
Stalin left fingerprints
like piroshki, a tradition.
Dear exile,
this window is silly
with dirt. You are irreplaceable.
I am like a weathervane
that breaks
rather than turn alone.
Everyone saw us walk across the green,
we were all too plain.
Tears in a square,
that’s what your breath was like
in this room.
Leave a Reply