I never believed in bioluminescence before.
Here in Moravia where all daylight hides
the only illumination is whiskey.
Names seem unimportant.
Large are the memories growing elsewhere
Do hemlocks burn when stared at?
Darkness always retains something shapely.
Those leaves engender me.
Bedding down in pine-covered nighttime
I disappeared. Owls are silent.
Bears rest. In Moravian mythology
even I sleep well.
The narcissus grows past
the towers. Eight gypsy
sisters spread their wings
in the garden. Their gold teeth
are unnerving. Every single
baby is asleep. They want
a little money and I give
them less. I’m charming and
handsome. They take my pen.
I buy the poem from the garden
of bees for one euro. A touch
on the arm. A mystery word.
The sky has two faces.
For reasons unaccountable
my hand trembles.
In Roman times if they were
horrified of bees they kept it secret
I believe there is something else
entirely going on but no single
person can ever know it,
so we fall in love.
It could also be true that what we use
everyday to open cans was something
much nobler, that we’ll never recognize.
I believe the woman sleeping beside me
doesn’t care about what’s going on
outside, and her body is warm
which is a great beginning.
In the middle garden is the secret wedding,
that hides always under the other one
and under the shiny things of the other one. Under a tree
one hand reaches through the grainy dusk toward another.
Two right hands. The ring is a weed that will surely die.
There is no one else for miles,
and even those people far away are deaf and blind.
There is no one to bless this.
There are the dark trees, and just beyond the trees.
She sends me a text
she’s coming home
the train emerges
I light the fire under
the pot, I pour her
a glass of wine
I fold a napkin under
a little fork
the wind blows the rain
into the windows
the emperor himself
is not this happy