Given a chance,
the vegetable kingdom
exploits any twenty grams
of soil.
Lodged in any crevice
where water drips from a roof
a flag pole or a phone line,
a rivulet across the asphalt
gives a sip, a kiss,
a royal flush
from a deck stacked
against anything green
or flesh or giving a shit
about any aspiration.
The moon was wreathed
in a veil of steam,
a gauzy bride hotly gazing
at this balcony on the 14th floor
where I sought a ghostly breeze.
I could smell the chicken
grilling on the street below
but not the flowers or the sweets.
The traffic had yet to sleep.
It was morning back home and the tv said
the hills were burning once again.
The thief and the thug cuddled up
and devised their schemes to deceive
in the city on a finger of the Baltic.
so beautiful Mark - as always
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