The Doppler Effect

we drown in the grey austro-hungarian rain,

thunderclaps arriving at the hauptmarkt two,

no three seconds after the lightning, you and i

soaked to bone and marrow and i still fail to

grasp why you would choose salzburg of

all places to decide to tell me your truth. here,

on wet, broken cobblestones where you didn’t

catch-stop my fall, my knee bloodied in front of

mozart’s house, near the shops where they sell

tortes and von trapp kitsch; your voice silent, my

brain shrill with resentment and utter indifference

to the baroque churches, the street music, sales on

lederhosen, costumed actors in tricorns hawking

opera. you make us stop at makartplatz number 9

to pay homage to doppler, the physicist who

makes receding stars burn red, and

sirens and voices fade in-out. you respect him. you always

prefer complete strangers. you laugh in the rain

and for the split second difference between sound

and light i watch you and recall joy. you decide to

play a game, you will run past doppler’s house —

some shallow homage to his wave theory, i infer,

to capture in selfie his connection between sound

and motion. you don’t ask me. you run towards

the river, i walk in the opposite direction, limping,

towards the fortress on the hill. you call out to me

but i cannot understand you from the distortion.