What did you know my little wooden gods
my cunning golden foxes

when my flight
left behind
the gray-black-red
November field beyond Boryspil
the mirror patches of autumn water

what did you see
from your dusty place
on my bookshelf when I
brought you
pinecones leaves pebbles
to thank you for

I thought
a new job
a successful relocation
the visa finally issued
but apparently it was

for an evening without shooting
for a city without tanks
for the fact that my almost eighteen-year-old

won’t have to kill anyone
won’t have to die