From a deep storm
my view shrinks
against hunger
like cold corners
of abandoned buildings.
From a busy street
I dream sound
into bread or wine
like mothers preparing
empty suitcases;
or loneliness
from pointed steel barrels;
murdering inside this corpse,
not knowing
which party will chase its blaze.
But who fears the outstretched arm,
or simplistic view of butchered sky;
post cards from Florida;
clever Federation volunteers
counting dollar bills—
the wind as she travels clean
directly against our eyes.
Tovli Simiryan
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/departing-moldova/
