Can great things happen to ordinary people?

The rotting boards of knowledge creak underfoot.

Now you know, for example, how in wartime

lights pulsate on Christmas trees in squat homes,

how the deadly wind blows from a burning field

burrowing like a stent between aorta walls

how Gaspar, Balthazar, Melchior

rush in an ambulance with a bullet-riddled headlight

how the thick magic forests appear out of compassion for the

prisoners of war

and spread in a layer of peat over the darkened souls.

Daylight, a clawing puppy, whimpers by the pillow,

the light is faint and snowy, snow will cool the faces

and capture them turning into icon-like images

that cut through the heart of the earth.


If there is no warmth

until spring, let this shroud remain.

Was everything, everything that happened, for a greater good

or would all the agony cause a tall tree to grow — bleeding

berries, pounding against apartment windows at night?

Where did you get this glistening moonlight skin, my love?

From starvation, despair, and milk, and mercury.