Have deliberately gone awry.
Polish home at the basin bottom;
men in pork-pie hats, holding hands,
blessing hams. We are drinking this
gold liquid very late on a Saturday
night. The kitchens are still filled with
food, and all the people in this building
yet mill around. Feast of this or that.
St. Stephen, or Sylvester, or Stanislaus.
One of those inveterate foreigners who
another world go 'round. They bless the
food and then the booze and then the
klieg lights and then the cars outside and
then the clothing that people are wearing
and then intentions and hidden meanings,
and then mistakes in case of do-overs and
then the make-up and make-up, both kinds,
and the weddings and the divorces and the faint
explanations at the end of a stick and the children
to come and the mantelpiece relics from Sevastopol
and things Crimean and things Polish or not and
those twin brothers who died apart when they were
ruling that fair land and the caged birds and the flounder
fish and the eels and the waterways too. Everything,
everything including things that cannot ping.