Amsterdam


By the looks of broken windows you thought 

the building by the bridge an abandoned mill.

Until a woman said she worked there. Driving past 

one night you saw the lights glow nothing but windows. 

You wanted to go inside and see her. At the least, 

see a profile, a machine, a shadow, the truth of her

that cannot be a drunk you. This is a place. 

Who cares about places? This is a place to sit, 

a booth in a gas station shuffled among people.

Or just head up north and hit the Appalachians

to ask what’ve they done or whether the curse

on the Mohawk Valley stands true and you’re in it. 

Dear rearview mirror, Is anything behind me? 

Just a saturated black sheet. And you ask 

objects for a response because they don’t care 

about god, and you consider them more.