November: Ruská 48, Vršovice

A little rain. Researching plovers, lapwings,

sandpipers and allies. Last February, 18 ibis

escaped the zoo. When I think of them in flight

I imagine the ways the earth rushes up to meet me too;

swings, skydiving, wine. Refill the coffee pot. Let whistle

the kettle. Let the light leave the apartment, come afternoon.

Come clouds, or bad weather. Consider the strangeness

of a life without electricity, of the phrase: I let the light out

of the apartment, as if I had anything to do with its coming,

its going. From the wall, ten Mozarts watch me write.

It’s evening and the light is not returning. I turn on the lamp

with you on my mind. The way the light was in your hair

under the cherry tree. How when I left you said

to write everything, even the things I thought

I’d never forget. I’m doing it. I’m getting better.

It’s been days since I heard from you.

That’s helping too.