When the wind hits you

autumn in Prague is

a loose tooth you wiggle out

in a Freudian dream

it is the way you rush in heels

into the better times

but your feet get caught into elevator doors

you breathe as slow as the river flows

back and forth with all the confused yellow boats

that have swam around your ghosts

maybe three times –

these are the days when throats sting

and you lose your hands

on frozen handrails

or underneath his arms

autumn in Prague is

the blow of the underground

and your hair

– yours –

your hair as you weave your legs

into the tracks

And he was soft

his eyes went in curves

– over the back-wall

under the feet –

he never looked at the answers

curled up under lights

 

i kept him in a notebook

and in the bus ride from Ballybane

in steam of corridors

– he danced in

and couldn’t see me looking –

 

at braver times he cursed at the gods

as I went into little agonies

of touch-and-feel

– over the back-wall

over his knees –

 

the sea was different in Antiquity

– further away –

tides were lower

and men didn’t feather their ways

into notes and silent heresy