By a window with an aimless breeze
Coming rare enough to bring down
My heavy veins, hot and buzzing, God loving
Off half a bottle of brown ale,
To, an empty inside. To long life.
To an empty inside, the wind rustles
Like crumpled brown paper.
There, my reflection in the window.
I crumble my hand into a fist
Like a stiff brown bag-
I've been reading Milosz, friend recommended.
He writes from Kraków, a city where I've breathed.
How have I been there?
Of all cobblestones to walk upon
Tracing the steps of my past life
I return to this culprit fold
With an ancient tickling in my heart
To feel at place with my old places.
A gerbil squeaks its wheel in the cage
Living and dying for its one dimension.
Brown ale, heating my chest now
My hands feel weak.
The window, again, I am
Understanding my angles.
What is true about Boston or Kraków?
Everything feels brown to us now.
