Esther-Grace Reeves. When butterfly wings get burned (№ 381599)

Peddling their eye on the street lights, shivering, blurred like beacons. I see only the snow, only men, only sleepy person. if someone closes us all eyes with his hands, and we walk, slaps through the puddles, through the snow, on the graves, not noticing the difference.
And its not.
There under the black mounds only of the body. no one else.