if these stones could speak
the powder towers would tell their
porous sedimentary centuries of sentries' sagas.

if these stones could sing
the pebbles would whistle like little birds
to the jagged gravescape of the crooked hebrew-inscribed hulks
upon which they perch.

if these stones could sigh
the streets that itch with bottle shards
and the army of cathedrals would blow over the city like a great wind,
rising to a gale harder than communism.

if these stones could cry
they would laugh instead
giggles that trickle to a wide whisper
of words like defenestration
of the Vlatva river carrying the bones of future saints to the stars
of sarcastic remarks about
swimming in the moat
or your little brother skateboarding on lenin,
or your proud martyr riding off into the sunset
on an upside-down horse,
across a velvet carpet.

this is the promised land,
where the face of alienation comes stamped on packets of sugar
free with purchase of coffee and cake,
where swarms of rococo tourists revel in the relics
of tuberculosis.

let's sit in a cafe there drinking hot wine and coffee
so we can say someday,
i wrote this
in prague.