Cabin fever
would have him
almost buying a ticket
to Russia
while we were lining up
on the border,
the edge, the rim.
The frontier.
The line that separates,
that shouldn't be there,
and won't be soon;
or wouldn't be,
we thought.
We thought
absorbing Ukraine
would be just a sport.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem