Under a Bridge in Munich

the day that all of you went to Dachau
and I stayed in town
with the snow and the ghosts,
snarling and spitting,
calling our true names
like curses:
I found myself hiding

under a bridge
in a lovely park,
sure to be blessed
by blooming hardwoods
and the spindly songs of fledglings,
and sweethearts staring at their own woven fingers,
come April;

near the Universitat Cafe, in November,
where we would often have tea after class —
cool cloudy milk with yours,
brilliant daffodil lemon with hers,
black for me, thank you —
though thin and dark red
like blood hosed off a wall,
was more like it —
did anyone take sugar,
I can’t recall;

under a bridge,
wondering what time it could be
with the light lying gray
and lost on the snow,
a bit of skin or trash,
weathered or burnt to ash,
snagged on a withered seedling;

under a bridge.
wondering when you would get back,
and if I would be there
when you did.

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