Pink City

bad boy scouts wearing red
bandannas & hiking boots prowl
the outdoor bars bringing alpine
airs to ljubljana – i won’t be
climbing the steps to the castle
won’t conquer what’s not even
there (the view the haze) instead
i’ll walk around photographing
pink buildings for you … do you
remember that cold afternoon at
sheherezade after the mallarme
gig? i can see why you liked it
here where the boys ride bicycles
& sit by the river smoking long
whites joints – & even sparrows
sport beckham spikes & boys bum
cigarettes from strangers for
a lark – i missed primoz by two
weeks but there’s poetry here in
the inventiveness of the street
performers or the flowers on the
cobblers’ bridge … i know that
somewhere here there’s a boy you
once loved if even for that one
short visit – it’s summer & all
the pastel’s aglow despite the
crumbling flaking skins i can
hear you & only wish these few
photographs could capture their
audible decline – the boys whose
hair alone makes me feel so much
older & so much younger than even
this breathless poem ever could