prying open our ribcages, just to prove that the expatriate heart still beats
in the ruin bar in Budapest
we talked about all the places it had gone wrong—
in Nebraska and North Carolina, these disjointed
legacies veering down into front-lawn funerals
for the people that we were. I sat, sober as a sin,
under the purple disco balls and the plant canopies,
the permanent marker on broken plaster and the
smeared greenhouse roof.… Read the rest