i have tried, in my way, to be free

sounding, for all the world, like pigeons—doves gather between the walls, against the bracing wind outside this height, and make their fussy rattling noises loud enough to detect through the window in my kitchen that is difficult to open if any other in the flat is ajar. for all this world, "golub" will suffice in reference to members of either species, this fact lending itself to further uncertainty about Hrabal's death. but, oh, when my Bohumil beheld, terrified and filled with longing, a world eternally under construction,* this i know—that he did not look upon pure white feathers

today i could not breathe any wind into the sails of my sad small ones, crying polyphonically for real and imagined relatives (some of whom left this morning, on a return ticket, and those suddenly recalled as departed) in a striking unison that eludes contrivance, except by my chasing them without ceasing, as if, thereby, to say, around and through—i know, i know.

my inclination, in regards to the birthdays at school (yes, we lauded Olga today) which, likewise, will not abate, is to puzzle the way back to something that makes sense. i'd like it to be tragical-comical-historical-pastoral and, above all (for foundational purposes), specific to Jugoslavia. so, let us inquire, then, as to what happened in January of 19...but, wait, these were born under the skies of different years—and in countries whose allegiances changed faster than the moving clouds, resisting any definite talk of "this side" and all that; NATO bombing fails, for perhaps the first time, in its omniexplanatory capacity. the scene individible is a poem—unlimited, i do know, except by the general truth of chill winter nights the world over.


*when it comes to my only true love, rhetorically speaking (because there are, ahem, others), must i really bother with MLA standards? i knew you would agree.