Partially and dirtily and classically and
socially and God-fearingly and the sixth sense.
Imminent end. Maccabees spit on
walnuts. Three generations of fathers peel like
new potatoes. First under the stable
of a neighbour, then they kick a ball around
again three generations back in a strange
cellar in Vienna and then again three generations
back in an flashy rumpus and then
again three generations back right close to
stilt dwellings and then again three generations
back in a turban, in a turban, in a turban and
then again, shelled, shy, sings so
merrily in Granada. Today is Rosh Hashanah.
A TREE IN FRONT OF A HOUSE IN THE GORICA REGION
Two hundred sports are not clematis.
Giants regenerate themselves.
They fling the eiderdowns across their shoulders and climb
They throw ground clay at each other.
Trout are you, and you.
Time flies pass by.
Night slowly puts away marmalade
into a helve.
Put there what you put there.
Frown when a vein beats in tropes.
Cymbals are calling to each other.
First there was a plenum, then radio, then
When a child swims, you cannot eat it.
Intestines of a fable shine.
Polar beings, are you also polar beings
with one foot in the grave?
Believing is dynamite
A fly thumbs its nose
Although it has no fingers.
It won’t explode.
It is in the birch.
It becomes mute.
When the shower soaked the mob, they didn’t
Even smack their lips.
Bitterly they assessed rich green
Grass and a zebra from a stone pit.
Power grows over the polishing.
Polishing grows over the fault.
There are no white waterfalls on wine.
A lynx is mad and marmoty.
I have no intentions of sinking.
Round cakes of dark sides,
muscles are chains on opened buttonholes.
Grey filling combs with the holy
as it opens its mouth in the storm.
I stopped in the wind.
The sand did not hurt me.
The moon smiled.
He woke from the shelter, nimble.
A glutton stopped the quota.
In the rod the leaves stick to the mirror.
A child follows me.
(Translated by Nike Kocijančič Pokorn and David Limon)