Analysis of Goodbye Moldova

From the depths of a storm,
my vision shrinks
against hunger,
 like the frigid corners
of abandoned houses.

From a bustling street,
 I imagine sound transforming
into bread or wine,
like mothers preparing
empty luggage.

or loneliness
from sharp steel barrels;
 killing within this corpse,
unsure
which party will follow its burning.

But who is afraid of an extended arm
or a simple vision of butchered sky;
postcards from Florida;
 intelligent Federation volunteers
calculating cash bills

the wind as she flies
Directly against our eyes