Šalamun Tomaž:

The borders of the countries on the earth’s crust

hold less than the frostwork on my window. The tree

gets dressed. Breaks. You whisper and splash with ice.

I hug you and brush you. I remove your teeth,

like piano keys, then put them in again. Now you are

different: evolution has leveled the trauma.

They will bite again and flash, they’ll rob you

of your sadness. I’ll blow you up and pop you again


and again, don’t be afraid, I won’t get tired. The skin

needs care and bait. And sometimes you have twelve


and we have to figure out immediately if you’re a     



To cut deeper and deeper into your taste. And also: to


herd them back, the pedestrians who tumbled out of

  your wing

at the silliest hour. You are Slovenian, therefore sad.

Translated by The author and Chris Merrill