Pécs

in Pécs, i stand a sunday morning the fall
there are chestnuts split open over the cracked sidewalks the cobblestone streets and i breathe in having been to the churches yesterday
st. martin's of the bleeding eyes miracles in recovery be still my beating heart so while they outside the chestnuts thump, fall an organist preparing the melodies of armageddon be still i am
(in the church on the morningtime in the quiet quiet of the tér)
and still i find returning to this sunday morning museum art portraits of all sorts and of a prophet of the hungarian people called at 47 he paints of burning buildings of red-orange sky of wide-open eyes and watching. one though catches my step a woman blue-and-green she looks, her eyes... and i am again in your living room where i sleep under your father's portrait of your beautiful mother and mine eyes cannot sit there comfortably
.no silent eyes could witness that handcrafted love and believe there was no story no history no sometimes long ago, lost lands and hard loves that carried that painting from your patria here.
in pécs i stand a sunday reflecting these projected memories i tear my eyes from the thing i replace my glasses and i walk on. there is enchantment

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