Slices of poppyseed cake 
adorned with flowers they fed 
to each other while the assembled 
crowd roared approval.

If there was any disapproval, 
no one came forward to say stop, 
put a stop to all of this right now. 
In the town, tourists drank

May wine and sucked on fingers 
of cheese and crackers. From afar, 
it could be any village with gingerbread 
trim and flags of unsuccessful 

revolutions. Everything is a house 
within a house, a dome within another 
dome. Brushing the petals from their lips
they vowed to keep the bees in their hives, 

the amber skies pinned to their eyelids. 
They would be countries in the absence 
of countries, luck of a steamed fish to eat 
without flipping it over to get to the other side.


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