for Pearse Hutchinson
Night words turn into morning words.
Here are the words I’ve gathered—
words I sit with late into the night,
words I wake up to—these days
early, so early in the morning—
See how they slide into their own song,
refusing to fit inside your usual aubade—
Ackermohn, Blatzblume, Blutblume, Boschtkraut,
Donnerblume, Feldmohn, Feuerblume, Feuermohn,
Flattermohn, Gartenmohn, Grindmagen,
Klappermohn, Klapprose, Klatschmohn, Klatschrose,
Große Klatschrose, Kornrose,
Roter Mohn, Roter Mohn, Schnalle,
Wilder Mohn, Wolder Mohn, Wilder Mohn,
Klatschmohn, Klatschmohn, Feuerblume—
Sometimes I think I prefer to live between languages,
within silences only I can hear—
These days, I cannot stay indoors.
Soon, those fields across the water
will burn with bees—
bees lured by a redness
even Husserl couldn’t have fathomed.
A redness only bees understand.