Eva SKRANDE

THE MARKET

Come fill my ears with the flowers' seas.
Fill me with valleys of markets
where the only vagrants are cherries
and oranges and kisses that proselytize
from their shoulders.
Where lilies and peonies ride bicycles to school
and the paths of laments are smoothed
by the apple's song. Your knees
are tiny terraces where roses take flight.
At your waist, troubadours read the book of the earth:
the lust of figs ends at your lips--
water and horses become companions at your feet.
At your belly's river, two handkerchiefs surrender.
War begs for mercy.

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