For Tsvetsaeva

mine are not in a bookstore. I keep them
in a place where not even the moths
can find them where
silent nods adorn their every line,

Maybe they know that their time
will never come. Maybe
they wait anyhow, and some
will ripen in the dark like wine.


sparrows on the horizon
like musical notes on a bar
in front of them, on the G
I plant the violin key
that old shading tree
the world listens not
to the songbirds she
listens to me.