Ilya Kaminsky

A Toast
 
To your voice, a mysterious virtue,
to the 53 bones of one foot, the four dimensions of breathing, 
 
to pine, redwood, sworn-fern, peppermint, 
to hyacinth and bluebell lily, 
 
to the train conductor’s donkey on a rope,
to smells of lemons, a boy pissing splendidly against the trees. 
 
Bless each thing on earth until it sickens, 
until each ungovernable heart admits: “I confused myself  
 
and yet I loved—and what I loved 
I forgot, what I forgot brought glory to my travels, 
 
to you I traveled as close as I dared, Lord.”