St. Stephen’s

long days &
jet lag.
flights from Jo'burg & London
& o, the oceans & countries between.

tense & chic hotel rooms offer no solace-
a night under stars
& black skies
over cobblestones older than my entire country-
between antique cream marble
cooled by summer night breezes.

a waft of coffee shop nestled between years of architecture;
wistful thoughts of "What's next" in the silent reverie
& snooty waiters
-"It's mélange, not cappuccino!"-
in outraged German accent.

no moon tonight
the semicolon before the next clause of my chapter-
other-worldly after the Ringstrasse & white horses
& emperors & waltzes & wasserfrau.

poor 19-year-old tourist;
the ghostly white-tiled spear that
struck the sky &
broke open Vienna's ebony heavens
pierced your heart,
& you, too, bleed stars

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