This morning the sky is a painting by Magritte as it is most days, no title Ceci n’est pas un ciel.
The birds rise from the wetland as Escher would imagine them, the small wetland once a place that might be painted by Monet on a day when he cared nothing for water lillies, but now a jungle of Gauguin.
We wait for the return of the flocks as the sun makes its retreat and imagine again a blazing sky over Arles.
The evening slowly enters Warsaw — along Aleje Solidarnosci a lumbering truck backfires — some old ones cringe — thoughts collapsing — into rail cars — lightening bolts on stiff black wool uniforms — polished jackboots — a wrought iron gate — Arbeit Macht Frei
The evening slowly enters Warsaw along Aleje Solidarnosci a truck backfires a sudden flock of sierpowka Eurasian Collared Doves rises gracefully from the trees each carrying another lost in the ghetto ’43 in the revolt ’44
Night settles on Warsaw – there is solitude
First appeared in Pitkin in Progress, Vol. 3, No. 1 (2002)