In the city, quarantine
and mourning, everyone
waits for snow.

on the facades, and
in the streets––
an indelible hideousness.

witches have multiplied.
they publish glitzy
books
about themselves.

shamans in the gateways
peddle amulets,
whose spells
have long gone stale.

Belarus, Poland––
burning fences
everywhere.

overturned trucks
with the contraband
of winter.

meat is sold
by the road,
virtually free.

animals have emigrated,
along with the connoisseurs
of sacred script,
and any woman
who could walk.

only men
with fishing poles
and flags,
rocks
in their bosoms––

everyone
in one square,
so that it would be easier
to take them up
into heaven
and lock them up
until they sober.

in the window
of the facing house,
in the kitchen,
a light burns.

naked death
rummages through
the refrigerator.

it’s her
yellow jackboots
that shine
when she walks
the streets.

she notices me
and nods.
see you soon.