Vrtlaru
Šipak pupa u lijehama, nitko ne iznosi mišljenje,smokve, suhe i svježe,
jedne i druge šuplje od kljunova, nad glavom izostanak zemlje,
što je nebo. strašilo više ne radi što bi trebalo.
krivulje produžuju vrijeme, ali ga ne čine ispunjenim. precizne,
kao telefonske žice koje nas prisiljavaju na bliskost, povezuju
s drugim bićima. strašilo funkcionira na sasvim suprotan
način od telefona. jutros je pas ispio srž iz njegovih nogu
i ono je palo, karbonizirani križ pred crnačku kuću, odjeća
koju ne možeš skinuti. takav je mehanizam prirode:
sve što smo zasijali nikne, bez obzira na sitne zapreke, duga
popodneva, i unutarnju ravnotežu, svi uvijek kažu: naravno
i ništa ne znači svo trenje uloženo u pretvorbu ljubavi u beskonačno
male pakete života: šipak osušen, vrijeme produženo i čisto,
zemljina otvorena ponuda da me voli trune u mojim prsima, svugdje okolo
slobodni samoglasnici, dlanovi, korov i mnogo više.
To the Gardener
Rosehips bud in garden beds, no-one expresses opinions,figs, dried and fresh,
both hollowed out with beaks, overhead an absence of earth,
which is the sky. the scarecrow has ceased to do what it's supposed to.
curves elongate time, but they don't make it filled. precise,
like telephone wires that pressure us into closeness, connect us
with other beings. the scarecrow functions in a completely opposite
way than the telephone. this morning a dog drank up the core from its legs
and it fell, a carbonized cross before a black man’s house, clothes
that you can’t take off. such is the mechanism of nature:
everything we have sown sprouts, regardless of little obstacles, long
afternoons, and inner balance, everyone always says: sure
and friction means nothing when invested in the conversion of love into endlessly
small packages of life: rosehips dried, time elongated and clean,
the earth’s open offer to love me rotting in my chest, everywhere around
unbound vowels, open hands, weeds and a lot more.