in opera-green outfits
hop out of big-tire trucks.
The sky curves and shakes.
Even the archival is provisional.
The better neighborhoods are littered
with pork-scented Ukrainian flags.
It is a Crimean Saturday:
Stalin's cackling-drunk ghost
pours Georgian blood-wine,
toasts the forever-exile of Tatars.
Itchy narrow-ribbed dogs
wait for stale, tobacco-dough,
Russian biscuit crumbs...
chance a bullet to a floppy ear.