Miroslav Mićanović

he, the Croatian poet,
enters the room and carefully stretches
the adhesive tape onto the windows,
first the cross, then the orderly squares,
sunlight breaks into shining
arrows, he checks the edges
and makes them tight

his wife enters, puts one quiet foot
in front of another, it’s good we didn’t
have to go below today, he doesn’t
dare to ask the english word for
bomb shelter. the dead dark of the room covers
the bed. he’d like to tell her sleep,
but is afraid, on the other side are her
leveled eyes

all i have i’ve got by looking,
and now its blackout

he wanted to write poems in which names
would resound like hot dogs in the mouth of a black woman

....

which touches us from the full
depth of your heavenly darkness

god, peace at last.

where is that world. pull out your fingers
from those wounds, incredulous Tom.

dark.