NOC ŚWIĘTEGO ANDRZEJA
[on St. Andrew’s Eve]

I’m dying light
in a dark room, but where
is she? – seated, within
a thick cloud a thunder-
storm approaching, I’m dying
light in the dark
every minute while her horses
are gathering, powerful
and wild, from four
corners of the world candlelit she
walks through a cornfield
and we glance at each other
and we kiss

“give away the eyes”, she
says, her face mopped off
its nature, to stand with
my back to the mirror, trying on
the impulse in her head
which reveals all languages we’ve
spoken - a beam of searchlight
moving over
an overcoat of the night,
between us, to discover
my face in

to stand in the dark, set
fire two candles, stare into a bowl
and to gaze into your own face
until dissolved in the water I
wanted she was about to say
what signs were what her signs were
- what
made the language she was using
as opposed to what she’d found
ready-burned
through the skies,
but isn’t everything a sign
when it’s dark? calling out
to make haste, just

you turn around and out of the mouth
of the mirror written
over birch leaves remembered
and sometimes used as an imaginary
stream of green, flowing through
my body coming out the soles
of the feet, another spotless lie, noise
made by approaching horses, instead
of calming down the emotions
like the man’s voice had promised
on the tape all it did was to ripple
more blood in the veins
of memory bringing more little
leaves of a birch
or aspen green

and I can hear from their breathing
they are not asleep

you ask your question and out the mirror
will come
a thick bristly silvery
coat of her horses
the immediate reality out the shimmer
which is you which is not you will come