Poetry

I have come forth
to set my heart
on the ground

and to make a small
signal fire,
mixing smoke
with dust and clouds.

The blue-white
flame, with the orange
aura, bright
as the blood oranges
of the south,

this
will be the burning
of my soul.
How long
does a soul endure
in a changing place?

Sarajevo, 1995

I dream now of potatoes—
white, russet, red.
Sentinel potatoes, like Argus,
with eyes everywhere;
watching the dead underground
in the cemetery,
in the stadium,
in the streetcar turnaround.