come to the edge of the map
take the boulevard pocked by the past
drop off the page
into uncharted
where faces read cyrillic
and sense makes other
and fear pries its fingers 
into what happened
and those lighting candles and
 signing the cross
and coming out backwards
still wear their anoraks:
they might not get home

meanwhile the dogs lie baking in the sun
fat as sausages
turning 
occasionally
at home in today
grinning in what it means to be alive

 

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