Saturday, January 6, 2018

Whirl by Tomaž Šalamun


Whirl

The word NORMAL imprints itself
inside the crypt and frightens

Glagolitic priests. I open the wall.
I sit on

the grass. I lean against
the wall. White lumps of lye,

what do you want? My eyes are
safe. The wall is a

mogul’s wall. No connection between a dolphin
in the air and a dolphin in

water. Those three drops are betrayal.
The moon is not a round pontoon,

it’s not. It’s not a piece of mantra in a little notebook.
I’m leaning on honey.

(Translated by Jeffrey Young and Katarina Vladimirov Young)

 

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