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Glass breathed apart, marble and cheap
potted plants, this would-be air
of non-chalance beneath
the concrete grid. The slowing down day
lit up the forehead lines, and funnily enough -
amber eyes, which - I’d just read - are rare
suddenly sliding
a man
into my view and up
the escalator, too close
to be decent.

The city wet and brown
as the Chinese
umbrella picked up amongst all sorts
of brightly colored junk,
welcomed –‘Just Lviv it’ -- you read,
rolling Balkan accents off the spiral staircase --
Ah, yes, Juliet Binoche and her craft -
It stained my lips, spilled over
the white lace of the tablecloth
down the street
into the cobbled pavement –
like the candle that couldn’t hold
in front of Virgin Mary – plead thus, as I have,
strolling along cul-de-sacs
with Gothic crosses behind bars
and snow leftovers–
plead, like when that snow piled up
and took the city by surprise, and silenced it,
except for tolling bells among
the falling snowflakes.

Let’s ride back then watch the sun
play catch up with the landscape and paint
in furious bold strokes.
Some small church swerved
against the blue glass wall,
its gilded domes a blinding flash –
the one before a blast –
engines aroar and wind
knocked out
this feeling --
skin on
skin.