Poets

Looking up, the chain of cranes is switching the tip of the wedge it makes, the direction of flight stays the same, their speed

The next hour. As though we were waiting. But there are always things to be done, we won't even mention all the baggage.

Give me those, papers, tobacco, filter, this time after the war will never end. Dew, the morning chill, this is how September starts, September of second-hand citations.