The borders of the countries on the earth’s crust
hold less than the frostwork on my window. The tree
gets dressed. Breaks. You whisper and splash with ice.
I hug you and brush you. I remove your teeth,
like piano keys, then put them in again. Now you are
different: evolution has leveled the trauma.
They will bite again and flash, they’ll rob you
of your sadness. I’ll blow you up and pop you again

and again, don’t be afraid, I won’t get tired. The skin
needs care and bait. And sometimes you have twelve
floors
and we have to figure out immediately if you’re a
match.

To cut deeper and deeper into your taste. And also: to
gently
herd them back, the pedestrians who tumbled out of
your wing
at the silliest hour. You are Slovenian, therefore sad.

Translated by The author and Chris Merrill

Advertisements