Two-thousand libraries,
and I thirst for knowledge,
for vodka revelations, 
reveries of endless twilight.
Extravagant gloom fills
canals, and violence haunts
each beautiful stone.
Even art in its vastness
revolves around one mad seed.

On Mondays, the museum closes,
reverence for a holy day of rest.
The seaport, the streets and walls echo 
whorls and chants of weary 
prisoners, stolen peasants—
every brick a revenant, 
every bridge a shrine.

Bio: Keli Osborn