WORDWHEEL Poem by ALEK VUKADINOVIĆ

Of two highs which is height
Off forehead bee to dawn is night
On mount pine tree that hums a call
Is neither bird nor mount's thrall
Nor heaven's fir fell to loot
Or mount uproots its forest's root
Nor veils a bird the heaven's face
Or under hill the violet race
Aftertime's guest left abandoned
Wails that crane bewailed
In night devoid of might
To pick a white flower of midnight
And hand you ice and peace, cool
A flute through gleaming whirlpool