If You are the Danube, I am the Right Bank
From the ruin I can see another ruin, she is not sure
I am not looking through her at the rain streaking the next place.
She isn’t sure she is a ruin, she is so young, she thinks:
I am young, I will live three times as long as this!
I can reach only so far as to pat the head of my black dog
with my right hand, and shoulder of my white dog with my left,
and I am waiting for my friend at the ruin, but I can see
another ruin, it’s her, it startles her to know.
She thinks I am very old, very wry and tufted and pale
with blue knotted veins and so I match the ruin, we’re
a photo opportunity, but I am not so old as that.
Which is why I spend afternoons at the ruin, because
I wasn’t made from a mountain. I am much more like the sprig
of blackberry bramble pushing through a gap in the stone, grown from
a burred seed like the one in my teeth. That, and the ruin
is like rows of back molars at right angles grown from the land, squat
and cupped on top, ideal for sitting. I spent a long time waiting
for being, while this wall prepared itself to welcome me.
Such a long, transparent history like air that is a little muggy
but that no one can see because the space is the same.
I let the tourist take my photo and pretend not to notice.
I have no expectations for anything, or anyone today, or in the future,
so I am happy, and when my friend arrives I am overjoyed.