deepundergroundpoetry.com

meanderings in Prague

there's a place that exists
only for you, where
time is a flat circle,
the sky a cobalt blue;

amaranth and
star of bethlehem strew
themselves over
beds of yellowed fescue

like lovers stretching
upon a mattress; there,
wind combs her fingers
through your hair, presses

her chest to your scapulae—
Can't you feel her breathe?—
embraces, whispers silt,
bequeaths to you her old love

before dearly departing again,
the gale there teeming
with fragrance of damp hair,
with the warm breath she exhaled.

concrete soviet flats
and zebra crosswalks
and every person you're to know
erect themselves like willow stalks

in salute and wait.
you've been here before—
Can't you see yourself?—
slipped off compassion like shoes at the door,

and everything that was will be:
the gravel path whose embers crack
beneath your bare feet;
the 30th jaunts by and september begins anew;

the lover you lose
here you will shun again,
her pale neck turns in circles, she says,
“my pail is now a drop only of contrition”;

the homeless beggar kneels
with upturned tweed beret,
heels peering out from torn shoes
and the tourist looks away;

intimacy you shouldn't hold for a woman
lying here beside you persists—
Can't she sense your pulse?—
during 3am trysts

when she pretends to sleep;
she heaves breaths as she lies abreast
and then, half-undressed, she turns to you
and rests her head upon your chest,

steals glances at your closing eyes
and parts your ribs to crawl inside;
she, too, now lives here, where
she testifies she's happy with another;

the clock dances round with you
a meaningless dosado in its veneer;
your strands of hair in the porcelain drain
will reappear simply to shed again;

your friend who waited inters himself
between yew roots, living only to die again,
while here you still cry that
you thought there was more time;

your body sinks its teeth into itself
the nails, the heart,
the quick and lips,
then spits them out and starts again.

but in spite of this
kafkaesque charade
the magpies in vysehrad
remained undismayed

as they dig into
manicured turf, there,
the peppered orange marigolds
washed by their black and white surf.

the hawthorn trees ramify,
their arms reach out and let go,
hold nothing
as they grow—

And you, too, will grow here,
won't you?
gonezalo
Written by gonezalo
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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