By then I was tired of your ballet jokes.
Our Thirty Years War started with a sequence of red roofs
and a glimpse of the Žižkov TV Tower.
Kundera called Prague a disappearing poem.
I don’t know. I drank Velvet beer
with girls in Slayer shirts;
You drank boys.
The moon drank blood.
The two Josephs have no past
and I refuse to look for any meaning in it.
Maybe our days are clever.
We steal oranges. You win at chess.
The hundred-spired horizon has hair like a wood fire.
The violinists on Charles Bridge play Mozart.
Thirty saints guard the citadel, and still
they’ve killed our Ferdinand.
— DAMON HUBBS
Damon Hubbs is a poet from New England. Recent publications include The Disappointed Housewife, The Gorko Gazette, AEOS Magazine, The Literary Underground, Michigan City Review of Books, and elsewhere. He is the author of the poetry collections Nighttime Logic and Venus at the Arms Fair. He is a poetry editor at Blood+Honey.