Something so immediate like a heart attack requires

decades of preparation: the artist hovers

outside the frame & in front of Prague Castle

waiting for a gesture to mark the times.

Above the games, further east, a bomber pilot

absently fingers the release switch before

attention drifts to a carmine sunset

the way it latches the barred wings of eastern curlew.

Siberian steppes await them, then a knock

from the front porch, requesting a séance with Madame.

‘Those drums sound like a funeral march,’ she remarks

slamming the door in the advance scout’s face. But you

have missed this scene, turning point-and-shoot in hand

to the castle forecourt, its mishmash of architectural styles.

In early January, tourists muscle in & slowly

outweigh the dead. Snow drifts layer the street, ice

reddening fingers. Blood is drawn to the edge of skin.