Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Eleven poems

The trolley named Annushka’s gone by, The one that drove you and me up.

Now some young lady or other Will open a fashion boutique.

She’ll lay out the black and white, Wipe off the empty mirrors, She’ll take a look from the corner At the turned-off monitors–– She’ll see in them not the Friday time, Not the people who’ve come to shop, Not three or four light little dresses, But something turned inside-out. She’ll see in the everyday shoving The stride of grandfather’s spring, You, standing by the bakery, A string bag full of country air.

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