translated from the Slovenian by Michael Thomas Taren and the author






St. Jeannet 



I’m strong in you.
In you I am myself.                   
You’re my milk, my trellis,
My limes.

The viper stings and leaves, the mouth leafs through.
Dawn is the brother.
Rupture is awesome.

When I stretch my arm and open my palm,
I sense your warmth on my wrist.
I flutter like a box with coils,                                     
in a soft fire I caress you.

I scoop you, Vence, Tourrettes-sur-
Loup, La Gaude.
All this is my table oil.
My dictate.

Then I open my car and take out again
my tennis racket and beat
balls into the wall, as I want to be
elastic and neat.

To redeem you and to die in your moist.

Look! Your mouth spins
round my fist.


 

 

 

 

 





Red Mustang



Milk tooth, sculptors, grey mould.
Hey, little twig in the soup, dipped and

heated. Your hair was skimmed as such was
the fashion of glaciers. They shoved you

in lime. First the edge of Mozart’s
sleeve started to fry. My room at Paros

was smeared with that lime. Why do you not
resist? Why do you accept everything?

Why do you fall asleep so blessed? You
crawl away. You always lock me.

I never lock the lower door.
Measure this pan.

It grows by your palm tree.
Brunelleschi’s little wall. The wall.



 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Admonition


The rib of the vaulted spy acts as a sea-snake’s godfather.
Sponge cloth, I hope you didn’t climb the reef.
Your parallelepiped, as an outhouse, would be                               
removed as the vaulted spy’s mother sleeps.










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