The Gypsy-Hungarian sat still,
untying his shoes.
He's asleep now. The old horse
lost in the mirror.
The wind's beginning
to widen the window now
that I've put geraniums into its belly.
He hasn't anybody. A pity.
I want to go, I want to get away
from the little cupboard.
Harlequin says: "Your face
is always a departure."
I'll rummage through his trunk
to find drawings fit for
memory cinders.
I pull the door open.
In my forehead presses
a logical purple. I can see
a little flash, a fish, and
sacks of grain where dusty moths
have been asleep for centuries.
They turn toward the moon and
reignite their persistence.
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