zofia beszczyńska

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I was told the town was magic
perhaps because supported on bridges? or
because absorbing greedily its own moon
made of flour, sugar, and blood?
blood here soaked into everything
gaps between stones; red
houses’ roofs; even leaves
hovering in pink air like little flags
even opal smoke from mouth and eyes
smells like a decomposing rose
hurt with a chain

the trees there gently support the sky
grasping the river with their nails so long
that probably touching the graves’ roots
growing here like sheep's fur

or emerging from muezzin song: are there many
who come for his call? on the carpets
behind the temple only the boys in snickers are sitting idly
and who is bathing by a fountain?

so graves anyway?
graves and smokes
and trees flickering like living torches

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