not a sonnet

I am from Hungary, she says.
And hungry she is. She asks for a beer.
We have beer and wine and limonade.
Someone points the writing, someone points the work.
The rhythm.
Phrases float.
From Hungary and angry, the Hungarian girl says.
Music hung in a dense cloud.
Angry because of the rightwing desert they have to live with.
From Angrary then.
From the desert of common knowledge.
I open the fridge, give her the bottle she asked for,
go through the fire, take the horse.