Amsterdam (revised)

Pocked marble slabs
catch the drips of December rain
that smudge ink on paper signs
and resurrect
the freeze-dried stench in the cobbles' grit
that licks my nostrils
like an old, blind dog.

The churches are empty.
Like dead whales their ceilings arch and vault
while the meat drops off the bones,
to the land below the sea
in the deep pool of my heritage
where the tulip roots are
and the blood of slaves mingles with the flour.