The windmill is still there, not only as
a sign
engraved on a spoon, and the painted
canal boats glide
their way through the central
streets,
with
bicycles and bells,
and somewhere there are fresh herrings
to
swallow and cheese to taste.
But now, along with red light women in
the windows,
the boys parade and the indeterminate,
and cafés
provide pipes for marijuana, and
there are shops
to sell the grossest images of
stimulation.
We have seen a couple at a corner begin
to kiss
the longest kiss ever undertaken, and
watched a child
absorbed in play with broken bricks, and
more—
a workman beside the tram, hammering
cobbles, walk
in wooden clogs through the sandy soil
of Amsterdam,
which is why I still have faith in the
dykes this year.
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