Here is the end of the line

where our buildings all rise,

cornered in mad and gray

pragmatism. With Soviet

cloud cover and concrete

coats, cucumber crowds creep

in little markets picked on

by auto fumes. Hidden, high  

windows frame frail bones —

Mother’s old eyes rubbing cats

and rugs in cataract. Through

black blouses drying on her

crumbling balcony, it’s hard

to believe in foundations,

to see what’s below, where

roads run out, dominions die.