When Kafka Died



Between the moon and her eyes

An old movie is cutting in around

Her gaze. He a doctor.

She ‘I don’t know.’  She said to herself.

The train is late.

A friend arrived.

A sorry ending.

In her lungs a troubled sigh

Bends the light on the winder—

A minute universe apprenticing her dream.

Perhaps it’s the sound of the city,

Careful words that cut through

A furious urban valley.

Never as proud as the mountain’s

But they sing scarcely in tune

With the rest of the year:

Leaner shadows of unlocked gates

Tailing on her skin. An empty lobby,

A wall clock ticking to an alien cave.

Like the way she kissed her words,

Or kept her distance from her shirt.

Old trinkets in glass windows, minor

Mausoleums with little price tags

Incautious of destiny—

‘In any case,’ she sighed,

‘They were married to memories.

‘Hacked each other’s taste,

Tucked away in mutual harmony.’

In her shoes and his—

Alas, the city awakened.

Outside the sirens were blaring,

Undead sins lining up for mercy.

‘Kafka died tonight.’ Saying this,

She fumbled through her purse.


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