russian woods, what we hooted about, where
we didn't go, where sheaves of light shot up to
the spruce crowns, red, where the ashes
from cigs and bent steel covered the ditches
along the field. on the outskirts of the village
tables moved and something woke us
late: further on was the end of the path.

no trespassing land mines / heath
barricade clearing moss fringe / crater red deer
empty villages / brick halls heather. there were

armored caravans, trucks, dark green tarps, inside
stood forty men, they gazed back
out in rows, all heads shaved. and there was
this one that stood still four hours, in july
in the heat, alone on the crossing, till it rolled
by in thirty machines, and he raised his right

arm: yield to military / till dust and the barking
of dogs and he doesn't move / thin
boy sunset / median green. they've always

been here and sometimes broke slats
from the fence and sliced off cabbage and
shot the hens. whoever was sated
went on to the fish pond, to the sun, and swapped
badges with children, red and sickle for
friendship. whoever did that didn't come back for
a long time. we waited in vain.

Translated by Bradley Schmidt