In Bruges: Red Brick and Windmills
bridges
The kids, their teacher, sprouts and dandelions
the aquarellist and a wet bicycle.
Sit on the worm bench as bytes on the mainframe
wiped pastel of a bright warmth with shades of red
gray
as I look down I find more than wanted
for god sake, it’s the age throbbing you see
and frailty, thy name is woman drifts in
been mine for too long in nobis chesterland
churches
slender cobbled gothics and proud romanesques
the decorum of acolytes and bishop
blesses youthful virginity using gods
eleventh finger prodding at my tongue
Florence, Bruges and Ghent
old cities of Europe
contrast with gadgets
life and hearts
break fast
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