on noordereiland shielded from the fists of war, from the hands of modernists...
the statue hails the swan afar, the benches still in quiet alliance
the street lurks silently beneath twinned abodes, fluttering hand-wrung flags...
the lace curtains part involubly, a face retreats ever so slightly
the artists occupy in abandonment, fortifying such with caked canvases...
leave directives in graffitied code by the door with no handle
the chandeliers are now a little too bright, the music a little less unctuous...
where the girls with velvet skin still lounge in bordello poses
the masked troll is standing guard, crypto-divining with a partial snake...
against a green door of no return, against a bricked in desire
from borneo load unloaded in crates and bales, hallowed island spice...
on ships beknighted upon tipsy seas, guided far by jungle drums
and they keep coming to partake awhile, within the great columnar space...
of dudok's insured grace, the master planner and the grandmother
climbing high to an attic room over the river maas, on a chair upon the stage...
to face a crowded stance of such architectural contrivance
where along the river's edge, the three catharses float upon another stage...
to beckon those that sail forth through the flowing night
