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,
thinking in absences,
two cubes of TV blue,
flickering in the neighborly dark
like ice on fire.