Irsk. Noise above rail yard Comments

Irsk. Noise above rail yard
like grinding teeth. I shrug,
the train switches tracks.
Car after car, day after day.
Thus your days are well-lit night.
The nights, grinding of teeth.
Irkutsk. Joints squeal, days swoosh past,
on the steppe a yurt collapses.
That's where home is, Irkutsk,
the train cars like exhaled air.
There, in the warmth of breathing
beneath dense fur.
...
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