January 19, 2008


You want to be Orpheus,
make trees dance, grass sing,
water a sustaining melody:
you refer to yourself
in the third person, saying
"Antonych moves" or "Antonych breathes";
you give the moon animal reflexes,
the sun a grace, like your own,
that looks for its intelligence
in everything it lights upon,
wants to grasp it where
it grows invisibly
from seed.

I see you in Lviv
holding your ears as almonds burst
or late at night Mercury rains
marine concerti
          on stones
that will rise and weep
at Judgment,
          when all things confess
they'd been distracted,
couldn't keep their meanings clear.

At 28, nearing the end,
you rush to keep pace
with your ghostly dictation:

in my mind
you're all ears,
listening to silverfish
eat your books
like a whole band of Carpathian tubas.

—Paul Pines

Posted by dwaber at January 19, 2008 02:29 PM