Breath

Outside it isn't fog. It's only grey, a lid set down on Prague and left there, nothing moving, not even the smoke.

Inside the 22 it's us, breathing the windows shut.

A girl in a yellow hat leans over and draws a face, two dots, a curve, and the city comes through it in pieces: a bakery, a dog, the river.

By Národní it has started to run, the smile going long at the corners, the eyes letting go.

Her mother says tomorrow she'll have a real one, with a candle. The girl doesn't look up. She's wiping the glass with her sleeve to make room for another.