And Trout by the river

A Day in Škofja Loka

I don’t notice the cobbled bridge I cross,
the stone walls along the river.
I don’t look up at the terra cotta walls,
the open shuttered windows,
red carnations.
I wander faithless, unmade, over Capuchin’s bridge.
I wander lost, unearthed, through the square, past the stone fountain.
I wander ravaged, in the smoldering heat.
The taunting, rainless, vulgar day.
I eat trout by the river.
And trout by the river.
And trout by the river.
Dead.
You are dead.