Translated from the Slovene by Michael Biggins with the Author Every ball is a bloody, beautiful mask of powerful people. We make up pretzels. I always did like chickens. O, slender fez, mildew perching on its fur. The poet is an oafish celeb on a hood. Of every wondrous power. On a hood. I glance…
Translated from the Slovene by Michael Biggins with the Author Radiant white pipe laughing deep down in Jesus’ eyes, the glow is astonished, returns. Wet bandage wrapped around your head, does it hurt? Fra Angelico’s tongue is tin. The ants on it are the hills of Tuscany. What was it that soaked Fra Angelico, nobody…
Translated from the Slovene by Michael Biggins with the Author I’ve invented a machine that, as soon as a goldfinch opens its throat, starts dumping bags of concrete inside. Who licked the candies into concrete, we don’t know. Who then brought the concrete to life, we don’t know. The goldfinch sails. The goldfinch sings. Where…
It makes me think of my other life, this minor chord from the room above, when it’s been within hearing—no, closer: moments when, if I stepped a certain way, or put out my hand… Mist this morning over the ball field. Maybe I am turning into a cloud. Last night I left my coat over…
That story I told you about suffering Was a lie. I never wandered into The woods with a pack of matches. Truth is I was born there, and there I ran the weather. Deer left Apples in my hand, so I didn’t think To cook the deer. The secret of my Life was my life,…
at your marker (they call it a marker) a footstone hipper than headstones earlier mapquest led to metro north google to the most reliable cab service in peekskill I bring wheat tall dry half-live stalks bought the day before (new york has everything) no one questions the harvest shooting from…
I’m only leaving you for a handful of days, but it feels as though I’ll be gone forever— the way the door closes behind me with such solidity, the way my suitcase carries everything I’d need for an eternity of traveling light. I’ve left my hotel number on your desk, instructions about the dog and…
There’s a preponderance of dog shit in Paris but no one says so, attracted to its other, finer qualities. If people were stepping in that much crap in Detroit you’d never hear the end of it. Motown my ass, they’d say, without so much as a backward glance at the Miracles, the Temptations. They might…
It’s only a pile of sticks in the woods. My sisters go to bed after me. It’s only a pile of sticks arranged counterclockwise, like a funnel. My sisters don’t know I’m really clear-headed when my mother stands outside the window. My teacher is scared of someone standing where she can’t see, someone really there,…
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