—after Nichita Stãnescu
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.
