Somewhere on Graf Ignatiev or Shishman Street,
posies of wildflowers laid out on a tray:
brought in from the country, they’re almost lost
against another era’s architectural promises.
I was on my way to somewhere else,
but what if I’d stopped, bent down and chosen
one of those transplanted bouquets?
If I’d crossed the street where I’d meant to,
I wouldn’t even have seen them.
