[continentals]

this cross to bear,

    bending, graceless —

    sun rising over budapest

        through a round

            aeroplane window.

wilfully ending

    warm light, cold days,

    constructing bridges out of

        pipe dreams,

            and lying beneath them,

                pretending not to

        love the stars.

only stillness:

    still remembering

        white snow melting in

            the rain,

        while the sun

            is just too loud

            and incessant.

before a gasp for air,

    these bodies carried so far

        from shore,

    so we cannot

        have funerals for terrorists;

            such shallow earth.

if those are silhouettes,

    then touch them — go inside,

        try to make love

            to what is

    not there.

and april lays down

    between these foam-green

        fenceposts,

    where past is blurring

        into the sound

            of cracking ice.

last night, i couldn't sleep.

    i took the a line

        to the city centre

            and took photographs

        of the mist.