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four
moscow bumps past
our bus rides pot-holed streets
bucking wheezing shaking
past grey towers
and a horizon of silent cranes ( surrounding )
it is monday
noon
there is no traffic but the sidewalks bustle
a green grey fur-topped stream
i look for colour
for red revlon nail polish
or rich white milk ( it does the body good )
or flashy silver corvettes
to offset matchbox ladas
all my eyes find
are blank vacant spaces
i cannot look i cannot look away
the dirty glass between me
and them
for an instant voyeuristic guilt
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