Dan Enache Poet Free verse

The Country in the Seed

The Country in the Seed

I say nothing, a staircase of mint grows beneath my tongue,
on its steps the dead climb, hiding blue loaves under their coats,
and you move my Sunday from my palm into a caterpillar,
so the gods won't find us — those hounds of gold and pollen;

and the street comes undone, a fish stitched together with windows,
I carry it through labyrinths, it beats the sea against my ribs,
I hear the grass scream with your voice from long ago
and I search through my bones for the child with knees of smoke;

what time is it, my love, in the country of poppy pendulums,
when all the calendars shed their skin onto the bed,
and we, like two melted keys, go searching for a door
that only the rain remembers when it calls out to us?

I open the treatise on the Void, salt shakes loose from its pages,
a rust-colored angel sews my eyelids shut with grass,
and through the darkness I see a heart with doors of wax,
inside it, your silence prays with a mouth full of keys;

on the table, a locust grazes the map beneath my skin,
all that remains is a seed small enough to hold the whole sea,
I wait for you there, bodiless, like the scent left in a shirt,
and I no longer know who is missing from whom when we bloom.

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