When the trees no longer astound
And the gravel builds,
The urban light
grows false, too white.
I remember that train journey
We were on freedoms' back
chasing through the night
Tracks of bone and steel
The sound of beating moth wings.
Lured by the castles of Prague,
the arches of Budapest,
Lit up like terrible ghosts.
As we raced through valleys of sabotage and treason
the fields lay their hands down at our feet
My forehead fused to the calm window
The view obstructed only
by my own flashing reflection,
Hooded and mad
with a belly full of frantic sparrows.
The tinkling of a distant piano.
Returning, I feel as soft as a petal.
My handful of feathers
swollen juniper berries.
A smiling tear.