Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne
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76

It hides in-between the birches. It flickers. Hide and seek.

How mystery winks. An apparition of deer. The candle of

his tail back into dark.

The chinks in the forest.

The winks of

light into zebras on the forest floor. Stripes undulate into

currents. Trees smuggle the Sacred. But the souls kept

skipping into leaves, bark, wrinkles, fissures, stalks, husks.

The trees, the smugglers of cemeteries with rings of psalms.

They compete with children on All Souls’ Day. From many

winged seeds the taproots hum the Book of Hours. They

dart like finches. There is no way to fix them. They hide in

cracks and whispers. They listen. To what is not. They are

brief and violent. They unconceal. They burst forth. Theirs

is unveiling. They will light the continent for me. Tigers of

wrath and light. The trees are not without Kaddish.

Mimosas, Pagodas, Figs and Rowans. The soul composed of

very small atoms produces small dream-stations.