Public Republic

Kristin Dimitrova

Photo: Robert S.Donovan

Without laboratories,
without conservatories,
without observatories,

the small town sighs in the afternoon;
pears are dropping down through people’s dreams
and the town clock is struck dumb at

ten to five, like a calf gaping
at the men in bloodstained aprons.
The mosque used to be the tallest building here,

later the church gained advantage in
walling the air off
for higher purposes.

But there is no
proud tower and the languages
have been divided

more or less.
Two girls are coming from the baker’s,
picking at the bread crust.

At night – the glow of TV screens,
curtains to keep out the darkness
and two-story plans for the future.

The stars, gone feral in packs,
creep silently down,
unmarked.