THE TOWER WINDOWS AT KOSIK
for Ivan and Dasha Havel
From its eastern mooring, a blue cloud swings
its sprattled feet, and night’s tall moon
leans on chimney stacks of nettled roofs.
Now a donkey clicks its wooden hooves, within reason.
On still another’s night horizon, poplars sit,
just barely seen. They plant thin arms in hobo weeds
as if to seed the southern pasture with a pond
for fish to glow in, gold before a fire pit.
And through the north pane’s glare, the eye delights
in apples as in leaves, and dusk delays
to keep our daydreams green and growing free
as apricots in stacks of wood or ginko trees.
But in the west, reflections stow their thoughts
in glass so clear it mirrors the room in books
and all each seeks as worlds within us. Listen,
now departs a lost soul’s journey into genius.
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