To Warsaw

I will go to Warsaw
where the berets
ride the true
glint
of expatriates
and Mazel Tovs
on the trams.

Searching for the glimpse
of the ghetto
which no more
rings with
the burst of gunfire
or burning violins.

Where Petrovskis
and Michniks
sang quintets
in the freezing smoke
simmering
with philosophy
and snowed fire.