Missile Over Kyiv
There's a trail in the sky,
licked by the moon, like
blood vessel passing the blue,
thin lines on the horizon,
in frontier dust, splitting the land
with fleeting aversions.
In a moment of despair, hazy memories
of bustling tourists ferried to airport, looking down
for Maidan Square, with their velvety eyes, not
the eagle eyes of a new iron curtain drawn by
every missile, their screeching noise whispering a
new tragedy; erased are memories of
east and west harmony, sapped by the hounds of
war, saddled on hypersonic madness.
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