Feather Island

She stacks four packages of cigarettes 
loosely on top of each other. 
A suitcase like a rocky island, girls

too tanned and so blonde 
their hair. Before we go

something blows through the
glassless window of what is
calling itself a hotel.

Do we have everything?

She says that the soul of a dead person
can return as a butterfly.
She closes the zipper under her legs.

On the platform of a previous town
a women in a winter coat
asks from what direction the train to Tallinn 

will come, while a horde of people is looking to the east.

I zoom in and again
don't take a picture of myself.