.
.
It’s solid grey here—clouds and canal ripples
sky-weight presses the cold through my coat
vibrancy from voices, bicycle bells, trams scraping steel
warmth from Rijksmuseum bricks, Vincent’s Arles’ sun flowering
I’m Amsterdam imprinted—laughter, lust, gracht-wanders—
the cobbles still rough memories from my soles so long after
winter days without day—in bed at 4 AM, up at 4 PM to dark
springtime Queen’s Day when everyone sells but we give it away
I dissolve the any-city storefronts, let the steep gables eye
my resurrected follies with Amsterdam neutrality—now as then
I take it all in and let it all out—this was a second life—separate
now separated by time and my place in time, but the cheesy
tosti I’m chewing, the beat of the music in the café lifts
the grey—for a moment it’s 4pm dark but still light
.
David Quintavalle
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