Those schist slabs were gold-smooth and a floating beacon
shone on convex water. Our clothes were dust and sea.
"Let me talk to him," my classmate said. We walked in circles
around the ruins of Hersones,
left on the Black Sea coast by ancient Greeks.
That June we lived in summer camps, working on a dig
with local archeologists. Another work day over,
a million poppies glowed red around us in the dusk.
We sat down on the remains of the northern wall
and I answered, "It won't change a thing."

I had been in love with a boy for a few years
and never told anyone, but she said,
"We all know how much you suffer. Let me try to fix it,
I'm good at this." She had already "set up"
eight other kids. "Look, Lenka is with Stasik, the other Lenka
is with Serge, Igor is with Yulia, and Tanya is with Vic.
It works!"—"I know," I said, "but in my case it won't work."
Anyway, I was too weary of the love fever. I let her convince me.
And immediately—wasn't that a sign?—
an invisible choir filled the amphitheater
sealed by a fallen sky. Angels? No,
a brigade of young pioneers marching uphill
in double file toward the dorms.

                                         Twenty-five years hence,
I'm still grateful to my naïve matchmaker
for that gulp of hope, the happiest night in my teenage life.
How can I tell you, my long love, my skinny fawn?
I had a dream that night, and in that dream
we cuddled naked among the poppies,
and on the seashore your suntan merged with mine.

In the morning I buckled my sandals
and walked into the canteen. He sat at the far end
of an infinite plastic-covered table, eating a sandwich.
White milk had left a mustache on his upper lip.
Our eyes met for a moment, he shook his head no.