a way

it is raining and i like the rain though my socks are wetting my pants my shoes wetting my feet these days, too, father, i wish i would stay, emerging into the gray the street the busses splashing up onto the sidewalks i come out from the great market hall having hopped on a bus feeling my way there close my eyes when i'm lost and picture where Sisi bridge is at unable to see, you see, over or past or anywhere around the lined-streets olden buildings here one must picture in her mind and feel to the way there.
i am making squash soup and there is no nutmeg in this city. they still chuckle, these hungarian clerks and security guards, at my minor norm-breeching actions, but i can say much more now than 'nem ertem' i don't understand and 'nem beszelek magyarul.' i love this language, only as of recently do i feel i am truly figuring it out, its secrets, its patterns, its rhythms.
i dwell in these rainy days these finding the city moments these i-am-all-alone and i know my way around... am peaceful today, contented... so much to do but just am... pita onions still upsetting my stomach, and the thought of leaving. another disruption another fissure but i was getting so used to this-- all of this-- the longing the leaving the bus the metro the train--
on the bus today the hetes 7 past keleti palyaudvar, and the sight of that grand station in teh rain choked me and suddenly, too, i see a child imre kertez returning from the camps i am crossing thokoly utca the busz continues over the tracks i remember imre got on the 4, the 6 trams but no trams run here now. they stop at blaha luisza ter. what does it mean, i wonder, that i see literary figures in these streets-- an overactive imagination or a desire to be a part of this history that i will soon leave. imre closes and we walk.