Buda & Pest

Blue funk contagions
gash through Pest air
into human pores
to clog hope
that no rain washes
away.
Away sits home.
Here I lie.
Take me away.

Meanwhile,
Buda is all pine:
A tree, evergreen.
Sentiment, unclean,
leaves of which
fly across the river
to fall piecemeal
into Pest’s lap.

Drunk artists climb
up fire-escapes
to view Buda
lit by night;
lights that are
cameras of tourists
on Buda hill, flashing,
as they capture Pest.

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