the old gravel pit
the breathing of the chimneys
visible on the horizon where the next big city lies dormant
the rustling of the leaves under my feet
and the streaks on the lake
on its bluish silver ground
- the existence

3 black birds are watching me roaming
where to?
as black as his hair
the soft strands caressing his pale face
the hair I want to sink into like in an ocean

the last light of the sun's rays touches my face once more
so tender, so vulnerable
like the skin of his fingertips

remotely I hear the laughter of the children on the swings
that's all that is left
everything seems to be asleep
the ferns
gentle
like his soft pink lips on my skin

the smell of firewood and smoke
damp grass and cold icy air
it is his scent that is enveloping me like a warm blanket
my life preserver in rough waters

this is my hometown
the place where I should feel safe and sound
that touches my heart

but all I want
is a tiny pin on a map
escaping
into his embrace
in Brooklyn Heights

Turns out I've been New Yorker for a while
But I tend to other business and I doubt I'll path the mile
For you see the city where I'm from is dense with garbage piles
I figured it's big and confusing and it's yet to make me smile
I don't come from there or from its region or really from a place worthwhile
See, my place is vast and I don't get it, it changes fast and is hostile
And I just can't key into it, neither mainland, nor the isle
So I figured that a Prague boy has been a New Yorker for a while