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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.