Bruges

The canal flows moldy brass

And the yawning sky is empty and perfect.

Ceci n'est pas une pipe and

This is not a dream.

I've been to see the chocolate shamans

And the trappist priests and they

Have worn striated history smooth

Until every woman is a wingless fairy and

Every man is a mound of mud.

I think I'm getting the plague

Or my knee just aches from pilgrimage

And my conscience twitches from pogrom

And the ugly weed flowers in this

Courtyard are as hard and as lovely as the aging sun.

Within the outsides of these walls

And beneath the circling noisy bird

It is modern medieval excommunication blessing and

For a thousand years someone is watching

And under the weight of that gaze

I know the eyes are my own.