It is night and close to Christmas.
Prague will prove it to you by scents
and lucid dreamt pointed light.
The spiced wine dims the moon
leaving room for the key background characters.
Linguists meander from hut to hut
developing their tongues,
another ritual snack.
It is night and December.
The buildings and the street
feel more solid than stone.
The stones are burlap of indescribable density
and as dour as a grey face on a blank river.
Take the stairs.
It is night and you want to continue
to take the air as it comes.
The convexity of memory runs by a grater
and pieces come off into the serving bowl:
an expectable pilsner in a basement, poorly lit;
too much bright clarity in the lobby;
a city wall's staircases;
bready dessert by hand;
a listing traveler's forehead on the train window.
Can eternal returns return
when the mind's eye pictures finitude?
Will metaphysical monsters
polish the street lamps next time?
When I sleep
do I remember
it is night?
Roman Ryan 