Like me they cannot speak
of a Slavic memory, or Soviet
tanks, so they bark all night
along the streets of Sofia.

The echo is empty, like the
cobbled lanes beneath the
abandoned Palaces of Culture,
Science & Agriculture. Dreams of

living & speaking again. Slippery
tongue, translated into coffee
grounds. Contact with nocturnal
demolition crews, the car wash

& the dilapidated trams. Ozone
glow bleeding off the bark. Some
broken glass. Rusted monuments
in a maze of nameless parks.