We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.

A man once rode away on a yellow crane,
leaving only this empty pavilion.
Once gone, the yellow crane never returns;

She was carmine inside
like a sea bass
and empty.

Stalin has to press his ear to my mouth:
I have only myself. Put me on the train.
I won’t look back.