Wednesday, July 30, 2008


—after Nichita St├únescu

There is magic in the wolf

who stares up at the flooding moon.

Whose light is a sling for stones,

a worm's pocket filled with eyes?

My heart is elastic, waits for

the gondola bearing god.

We are entranced by every Vesuvius.

The idea of it gnaws the mind.

And look, your frail teeth

put the moves on a cabbage.

What fugitive cathedral

exhales its pious cargo?

Only the grass can know

the rabbit’s mathematics.