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