Fantasia, With Soviets

Checkpoint at the border, snow could be found in a fallen state, outside of which
everyone in the iron was glorious. Ilya burst flakes on his shoulder. Teego timed instant coffee, it traveled. Dusk-important pines. A moment installed in each summit. The shadows of which
when neither were the will of their great country, incarnate, cancered like Hodgkin's a
pointing to the land-crowded dark, popeless. In homesickness' nature--a wife, once a girl, halo of
impulse with more and more, hope, then touched in crossfire of conversation, what village, Kima,
where army volunteers a boy or two, for the mountain. Someone passing through once spoke of
the Urals. The Urinals (my English is in humor, by accident). But all that is now ago. A
tapper's pretend pertinence.

The history of borderlands, if ever written read somewhere, often has this one thing to
comment. A smokebreak invents its genie. Has to. Split in memory of the middle, crushed sprickle
of cured tobacco flake, engineers paper a licked roll to extrude full grown soldier's lips.
Elena's hair. Sentimental on a pillow. Heat's reason inside the arctic. The letters. In a pocket
headed East where he sent them, in a friend, or was he, maybe just out here, exile, in hypnosis.
It was both problems--unbearable and repetitive as roses--to read appearances of when and
where she was still there, limited by a writing style and instant readiness. So good. So, as
they say, attentive. While out here wolves mixed elongations with hunger and huge snow.

All of this is a lie, of course. A story to complicate where he came from. Teego finishes
his Kalashnikov, clean. Dips toast to announce the brown ring. Caffeine. And the promise tomorrow
he'll rise to himself
as someone.