Walking in Cracow 
Roger Mitchell
From Letters from Siberia and Other Poems

Light hovers
wind-swung in the streetlamps
above the quiet streets.
We walk on a mucous of spring mud
squeezing it into wormy silence.
We talk of poetry and try,
like something memorized at school,
to remember America.
"What was it like?"

We pass a convent wall.
The stones sing, far away.
There is no one here
where the broken horse,
hung before the horse-cart,
stares through sleep at his cobbled feet.

Two lights blink by in sleep,
suspended,
thinking in absences,
two cubes of TV blue,
flickering in the neighborly dark
like ice on fire.