New York from the plane
a giant electric spider with his highways outstretched
like legs
twinkling vectors intersecting in the dark blue nothing
(even from up high
I can tell one of these cars is speeding)
the second one is Prague, lying
in a gentle web of silky white
the veins on the pale arms of an ancient lady
who was caught in the tourist trap;
castles and bridges and baldachin beds; disrespectfully
sentimental lovers perfectly
still
I'm pretty sure Kafka wouldn't have understood
what the fascination is all about
those spiders don't belong to me; I don't belong to them.
the only one of them who moves when I blow in his web
is tall and slender
a black meta spider with four of his legs stepping on the skyscrapers of North America
four somewhere east, locked over the remnants of a broken
regime
a brittle body hanging above the Atlantic
when my nights stretch long, sticky
like a piece of lokum warmed over my
midnight oil
I jump on his back and tell him
look, I know it's hard to hang like this
I don't know where we're going yet but
enjoy this while you can, it's
better
than what follows. one of these days
you are going to have to cross over on one side
and you will be forever
half exiled.
