I was was old, maybe five hundred years
in the midst of history.
trying to explain something. The only words we knew were
Pivo-beer and Dobro-good.

Perhaps he was twenty-five.
When the waiter
bought our Brains
in a bag, lamb brains cooked in a paper bag. We recalled
how the waiter made a circle, then knocked his forehead.
music from the street, a warm breeze
smelling of foliage and the dust of a thousand years.
the constant clatter of silverware on dishes.
The waiter dead now.
Killed by those casual laughers

Scattered, scattered.
into the dark, perhaps glittering
Somewhere it still moves.
creatures that love and slaughter.