Tomaž Šalamun
translated by Brian Henry & the Author
To step into the splash. To
adorn oneself. I strode
the Karst valleys and
bloomed. The underworld
is plastic and juicy. Whales
dunk a little,
shoot a little. Chile is
dewy, spring
is paper-wrapped. Girded
like an ant,
like a cadet with argil. How
do you reckon this? Bruised
like an icon? Blasted with
small and large candles?
Slices are also in the
trunk, there, where
squirrels and hornets
fertilize tiny eggs. Caesar
walks staccato. Rome crawls
by your feet. Wherever
the grape plucks, it starts
to purl. The Irish saved Europe.
They piled sagas at fire
sites. Everything northern
(Styria). There, in the
forests, live char men
with flashing eyes. They
snack on The Book of Kells.
I decant a blossom. It goes
before you.
YouÕre filled with Uriah.
Green, tiny and pressed.
Blueness is a furious cake,
a round
cake where yearning sleeps.
Are the balls
the balls of the earth? At
wells
and fountains? At AtlasÕ
pillar?
You say that youÕd be my
property.
YouÕd lose everything
instantly.
I still wouldnÕt notice you
anymore, injured.
I choose from the thickness.
Honey collects
cries. And when the body
thickens and you get up
because I dress you, because
I congeal you.
I erase you back in the
past. I draw
a white flap, shine a white
flap.