Behind the Clouds


Behind the clouds,
brain cells were never destroyed
by nitrous
or lsd
and a girl has her master’s degree.

In Cairo
or Venezuela
with her undamaged hair,
a Fulbright and a tall Londoner
or an Australian with an accent and good ideas.

She believes in God
or the piano,
jogs in the morning
through pinkly lit alleys
smiling at vendors,
running through the mist.

Or in the evening,
passing tired men in old suits
on their way home from
a long day at the embassy
or the museum.

I can feel her feet on wet cobblestones
hear eggs frying in a pan
or lamb roasting over a fire
in a spacious flat
or a small third floor walk-up
tended by a man wearing sandals.

I can smell coffee,
or warm beer
and all the colorful flowers bunched together for sale.

When it rains here,
under the clouds,
I can feel her heart beat
in her chest.


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