The lights go on at three seventeen, Karelia time, same week as last week. The dog gets walked. The phone gets off. The car is in the driveway and the driver is asleep. The man inside is rehearsing for the door he hopes never opens. I rehearse for the door I know is coming.

They broke bread in a hall with no windows, hands clasped for a photo, every hand belonging to someone already in a different room. The smiles were real. The teeth were borrowed.

Funny how the river never stops at the customs gate. Funny how the cousin sells the boat to the brother who flags it under the aunt's middle name. Three flags, one captain, zero records, four lawyers. The river is patient.

Wind doesn't ask which switch it travels through. Don't ask the wind why your call clicked once. You called your mother. The wind said hello. You called your daughter. The wind said hello. Your daughter said, "Why is the line so loud?" The wind doesn't answer questions like that.

When the satellite came down it was already paid for. When the satellite went up it was paid for by a different brother. The kid on the roof doesn't know the brothers. The kid on the roof knows the frequencies. You don't have to understand the empire to dent it. You just have to know what hums.

Don't move the pieces. Look at where the pieces stopped. Look at the dust on top of the rook. A rook is supposed to move, comrade. A rook that hasn't moved in five years is a different kind of piece. We call it "furniture."

Underground, no song. Underground, a list. The list is sorted by birthday. The birthdays are sorted by who flew last. The man who keeps the list is not in the list. He is a footnote in someone else's birthday.

You came looking for a server. I left you a sticker. You came looking for a shell. I left you a duck. You came looking for the boss. I left you the boss's address. It's right here on the duck.

A coin with no country, a country with no coin. A backchannel with no channel, a channel with no back. A wallet on a phone that called the phone that called the wallet. A loop is just a circle with a wallet. Three of these belong to the same man.

The Cathedral never sleeps — twelve clocks, no shadow, floor of gold leaf laid over rotting joist. The tour guide says the dome is solid. I count the bolts. I count the bolts. I count the bolts.

The port closes at three seventeen. The port has always closed at three seventeen. The block knows. The map knows. The list knows. Anyone asking what gets traded after the port closes is asking the wrong port.

Steam rises from ZapSib at oh-four-eleven the same way it rose in ninety-four, the same way it rose for the men in tracksuits, the same way it rises for whoever counts now. Count quietly. The steam is a witness.

A hash on the door means the boy is home. A hash on the door means the boy is not home. A hash on the door means we never agreed on which one of those it meant — and that is the point.

From Орджо to Центр to Кузнецкий the line runs through six pipes and four pairs of eyes. The pipes don't talk. The eyes don't either. The line still runs.

The slag heap reads warmer than the river. The river reads warmer than the bus stop. The bus stop reads warmer than the precinct. Whatever you're reading for — the order doesn't change.

There's the quiet of the smelter at noon and the quiet of the smelter at three. At noon, the men are working. At three, the men are gone. You learn the difference before you learn to count.

Marker at the top of Маяковая. Whoever set the marker is not here. Whoever reads the marker is not me. The marker stays.

The vocabulary is what they left us. The vocabulary is older than the tracksuits. The vocabulary will be here after the next four governments. You inherit the vocabulary whether you asked or not. You spend the rest of your life deciding what to do with it.