A Quarrel with the Village of My Birth
which is not a village but
a shivering capital
of Europe, may she rot and be
reborn with heart. Even her
birthday song is martial. Even
her avenues are lined with
pikes. Even her galleries
crowded on Sunday, her parks
larded with pigeons and crumbs.
Marlena, husky voice and
droop lid, sits on my lap in
promiscuous lush. Of course
I am charmed and reach for wine.
Of course it spills red across
the continent of my table.
Like an orphan I want you.
