Amsterdam

Pocked marble slabs
catch the eccentric drips of December rain
that smudge ink on paper signs
and springboard off my leather hat
to 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.

And what of me,
alone on these wet streets?
Will the rain wash me away
into the earthy flood of these brackish canals?

I sink below the sea
and deeper
until I'm alone in the deep pool
of my heritage.
Here the tulip roots are
and the blood of slaves mingles with the flour.