salt and phosphor,
angel’s dust
in plastic bottles.
sleeping tight,
he’s 21.
boiled and crushed,
beneath wooden dolls,
and mother’s silver plates –
in crumbling walls
of Екатеринбу́рг –
smoked it up,
in coughs of
grey mush
and despair.
a blade travelling
through a labyrinth
of vessels –
3 / 12 / 2017.
it was only $2
for a rush of negligence
in veins of gold –
sinking into coppery linen,
falling deep
from high-rise motions
until they reach ground floor.
wasps in his mind –
already in the sky,
russia’s son will soon be home –
mom and dad both dead.