by Meg Tuite Artur Aldyrkhanov It is dark and the branches bent and pointing at me take on a sinister sneer as if to say what is it that you do? I am wind-stooped and bear the ridicule of their whispering fingers. I walk with a look that the feet can’t say, following themselves because it is all that they know. I am sure you are under the same grayed vapors of another city. Remember me when you stare into the fever of faces; that one of them is looking for you…thinks of you…m