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.