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by Ivan Peledov 

Cities begin at the northern end of the air.

Invisible mountains dance high above in the snow.

Pianos burn in the hotels with unpronounceable names.

Retired dentists call up local spirits from restaurant mirrors.

They do appear sometimes. Modest and shy,

they meditatively count wine glasses 

in the hands of maudlin tourists. Some of them are a mess, 

the others sound like garish rock songs when they finally speak,

or look like someone who has just eaten a plate

of sacred mushrooms served by mistake at a fast food joint.

Rare insects follow them, ready to lose a sense of purpose.

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