A Short Poem About Prague

Trained dogs jump through the sun’s flaming ring

through my thoughts 

Baroque legionaries lounge tedious on Charles Bridge

and water under the weir 

sweats mouth foaming it runs 

and flows 

returns 

like green grain in the wind 

Water returns 

returns as heartache flung into the world like a boomerang 

But last night’s dream won’t return to me 

and I’ll never hear the Internationale again 

the way it sounded at the burial 

of the poet who transposed each line 

into its unusual tones 

It’ll all repeat 

summer and winter 

the crying pigeons 

and lovers’ woes 

it’ll all return like echoes like Roman bells like our lives 

That dream of mine won’t 

the Internationale on a poet’s grave 

What will return 

life water under the weir