by Kate Efimochkina

The lights don’t go out—
it’s movement. And some places
don’t close for the night—
the airport.
A Greek man was smoking by the automatic doors,
no one around. I watched. I watched.
The plain and the tangled tree branches
in the distance.
The river under the bridge
sheltered swans and water voles.
It’s dark, and something is flowing away.

The saint fell into the water,
and a vagrant fell into the water,
and a bird died in the water;

in the morning, the ripples are serene and bright.

Kate Efimochkina is a writer and graphic artist. You can see her works in The Turning Leaf Journal, Outside the Box Poetry, Fixator Press. She is on Instagram @k081670.