Vol. 7

—for Michael


Figures a city cleft by river would have trouble
keeping itself from getting carried away—
so preposterous a city that it sets fire to mineral
water and invites one in, naked.

Budapest eternally leaves half a foot in
the depths, neither/nor-ing, safehazardly.
It’s in hot water with heftier, less liquid
superpowers. It’s here that a handful

of escapes-me-now painters did something-
or-other about forgettability. Didn’t they?
Is that a superpower? Has paint only
made its point when it crumbles? Has old age?

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