blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsFall 2010  Vol. 9  No. 2
translation by Michael Thomas Taren


Timberlands on your little feet, the noble gloves on your
upper paws. Everything else is for cavities, for my
size. For your never-ending tender grove. Where are you
going, the white jet’s line, already wiping itself

on the blue sky? Will my flesh remember you? Do you
still tremble? Do you still scatter pain? You breathe
quietly, are you still: with your eyes wide open,
without your breath, you don’t believe, you don’t

believe. And in the angle of mountain lakes, still the tear
on your surface? They stole the shawl from us, our
witness. As the Lujo Vodopivec sculpture in the Koper

show. Break: thief, make yourself known! You see,
I almost forgot you, following the cruel surface
of my own face. Growl, if you love me, growl.  end

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