Two Poems by Rick Mullin

  • June 7, 2021
  • Poetry
I climbed down from the castle Saturday
in light November rain. I sprang for hot
Merlot and photographed a swan. OK?
Another weekend on my own. I thought
about you twice. And on the Karlův most
I stopped beneath the statue of a saint
whose misspelled name approximates our daughter’s.
Our hearts are broken. Yes, I’d love to paint
the bridge Kokoschka painted and the waters.
I might get off a pencil sketch and coast
into Bohemia. But often it occurs
to me that the experience transcends
the take-home draft. A painting would be hers.
But there will be no painting. Weather bends.
A saint is nothing but a metal ghost.
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