of all the sounds and sounds of sights,
and of all the chuckles and wintertime
mishaps, what of Bucharest remains in
the starkest of standings? What else
but the outer space bleep-bleep-bleep
uttered by a prior era giant
born of concrete with echoing innards;
maybe something simple as a signal
barked at the start line as announcement
of another adventure, the hour
mattering naught; as something simple
as a trip to fetch eggs or bread or wine
meant reinvention of the alphabet –
though reinvention is not the best word.
I always blossomed best in foreign lands.