October in Bucharest

Skate round dirt-board stalls spread with earthy leaves,

negotiate a laden porter’s trolley. Trams turning disgorge

shouldered sacks of apples, leave behind slick trails

crossing a junction peppered with cinnamon faces. Was

then. Moving targets spattered with scarlet scarves. Weather

torn, moving slowly but not going nowhere, living, queuing.

We are the only ones hurrying nowhere. That is then. What

is this.

Cobblestones that glisten. Sidestepping black puddles &

tarmac lakes, we walk among desire’s ghosts, gripped by

tense silence. We are that. Refracted light of a shroud in her

palm, sharpened by crisp air, by midnight’s shades and

portals. Solitary lamps, gleaming polished silver along dark

undulating curves. Watchful, the deserted street. Olive-dark

steps climb beyond. What is. The tall iron-wrought gate to

her winged court clanks behind. Rain falling, lightly, across

her breach spread and opening. So this is what.  

                                                      We want to touch.