PRAGUE, MAIN STATION

(sheaves of grass, soughing in the breeze.
cloud analog over cyan sky.)

 

Your machine-woollen V-neck. Too-short

sleeves pushed up. Your compass needle gaze,

opening-night grin. Subway tile squares

spelling the platforms to hlavní nádraží.

The slick rat pelts

of diesel paraffin

oiling the still air.

Tram tickets and mixed metals,

the stage directions

of your thigh pockets.

Beneath the railed arteries, radio Tesla’s

electrostatic thrusts.

Stashed in your pack –

your bacterial disdain,

graphite instruments,

and passwords holding their breath.

The gold-polished pinions

of a zodiac clock.

Woollen sleeves being pushed up.

It’s warm in the afterglow

of Jan Palach’s self-immolation.