An Hour in Amsterdam

We emerged from the underworld
                               of travel to the narrow streets and stacked buildings
            outlining the canals.

                      Light bombarded us from all directions
                                 so that we couldn't see for it,
        but could only see it                     glancing off dry spots,
                                             reflecting up from the water, from beneath.
                   Our steps became unsure
                                                                   without the guiding shade of the foot.

           He led me quickly, afraid to glance behind him
                        lest I turn                    and shatter into background.

                                      Intersecting, the beams wove a medieval tapestry
                    and included us as lovers
    (even there the light is barring,
                             the vines entwine                     and brace themselves).

We shared a joint in a mirrored café, all edge
and dim in the back where the canal winked toward --

took turns breathing
until we were smoking
the light itself, unraveling
its weave until brightness
was merely a veil.

He undid the knots
and I took it in, 
thread by thread.

Outside, the light weighed less, embroidered
us onto it. Sight was a momentary stitch in the haze.

We felt the way the women at the Cubist unveiling 
felt afterward when, removing their gloves
and adjusting their hatpins, they receded
into the comfort of Impressionism.

First place, Adele Steiner Burleson Award, The University of Texas, 2002