In the Absence of Wings
Somewhere , a gardener
and though the minotaur sleeps,
the yewberries
It is evening.
I have locked the door
Soon I will finish with books,
Snow
What I was given
what was with held
The horizon is the thread
of wings, as I come
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"And look, Daedalus still
hasn't invented
the wings."
Miroslav Holub
translates the labyrinth
into a maze of hawthorn and yew,
the hawthorn is sharp
as a rosebush,
are bright
with poison.
I have watched the children wander off
into their lives,
of my father's grave
behind me.
their chaste
and voluptuous music.
and flowers alternate,
flowers and snow.
has been taken
back,
I still long for.
I must tie to my wrist
in the absence
to the vine-scrolled gatepost
of the labyrinth.