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a rifle bullet across the page and into Shostakovich’s
the curling steam iron pressed against the inner
the headless scream,
the unfolding dahlia,
notes from a dirty diary,
the lion’s nightmare at 2:30 p.m.,
this summer has run through the trees like a tank,
I stick my heart into a rubber glove and the fingers JUMP,
the Russian Empire gurgles down the garbage drain,
we approach the 21st Century with our dirty stinking laundry,
the gods have done with us and them and this,
the last useless word looking for a place to die.