Under a canopy skya 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...
Read this story at The New Republic