Moscow

the howling wind
made us shutter
when we were two
blades among the
green that stretched
further than the

horizon after horizon
the thistle rolled and
bounced in the flat
and infinite emptiness
with the brutal beast
of torrent as cold
as its native Siberia
being its only

friend, to find
that other bent
and broken hollow
stem, which whistles
the same tune
out exposed and
bare in the barren
lot allotted to the

poor that have
poured out it all
and gather very little
in dust and sand
and scorching thirst
their search is gone
in zephyr flights
as they have already

found and lost
the box should read
for she knows she
can't hold on to the
picture frame forever
she can't always know
the neighbors' kids
names, let alone her own
or the other things
she has earnestly known
but she can listen
to the wind chime clang
in the sun, on the porch