&

July 2015

Barkovlje

Dwarfs dried my thigh.
In the eyes I had

capillaries, a boycott and the
indentation. In the planes

we circled above Bistrica. We
watched it when it was

caught by fire. It blazed like crude
oil. Choory Moory’s wife

swallowed saliva. Soundeded. The
one who shot the film about

green ants was there too.
We went to Miramar.

We took towels. I recall
the learned voice.

The Lake

Indeed. I returned again along the
inner edge of Albania to that

wooden hut. Again there was Bob Hass.
He told me: Bogomil Gjuzel is an

auto-mechanic in Canada. And my retort:
O, for this you need have a lot of

guts. To wit, the customs-woman frisked
me. I was naked. Like a newborn,

wrapped in a triangle made of canvas.
She lifted it, smelled it. She was

kind. She put it back, it stuck
again. In the nearby hut

were men of letters with sad eyes and
stretched out legs. They all cried.

In the Water Lily, Experienced and Jumped

Three reports cover three different
legs. The sun scares

pallbearers. Whores raise red slabs
onto green tables. Thermo-cows,

a mania from the grave, cut it out!
Honey, I asked you to

hand me the daylight. Did you
bespoke the suit? Did you

wreck Octavio’s bicycle? These tinders
lick the Gothic

arch. Grated windows,
the stuffed lead,

honorific image. Which position
would you take, enjoy?

The Difference Between the Entrance and the Exit
at Francis Bacon’s Retrospective in Museo Correr

O white chapter’s abrasion!
Sparrowhawk, wound yourself!

I’m wrapped in your stole.
The era spun me into

kara luck in the sea common.
You row the sky, you row

the kid. Fir cones whirl in the tiger’s
mouth. Little orbs are crunched.

Huh! How your sweater gleams!
You put it on. You take it

off. Who do I boil with? A mottled
parrot? The real data hit

my head like a true ink. I hardly
stammered out: BTC.

Ave, Italians

Calm the ball. Berta shut her eyes.
Berta has no eyes now.

Little men will come, wrapped in
sheets, to drown in Maremma.

They’ll bring the fog on their little
braids, they’ll play with

rackets. They’ll have wide eyes,
notches on their foreheads,

and tiny ears like tiny hares.
They’ll roll huge drums

full of volcanoes. The bells
will ring. Wholly softly,

I ran across Trieste, which
turned into surface.

Gombo Circled with a Mattock

You craned the spirit down from
the rails like a crocuta crocuta, therefore

you deserve death. Max Mara,
I merited the little snail.

Deplumed the little snail, drew and
quartered the little snail. This was last

of the fish days. Please stop with
the manors in the underworld.

The sun marked my newborns with
ribbons. Some of them got

confused. Did you eat spools? Mangiare
parrots. Mangiare parrots.

I flew out of the muscle. They
dipped me in the black bowl.

To Lumberjack One’s Own Splendour

The river rolls towards the throat.
The Germans trust their

armpits. I hewed a wooden
fox: the measuring between

the rein and the night. The hour
of the hour gestates

itself. They change its clothes.
They cut its foreskin.

Sometimes it flashes like
a globe. Why don’t you

see the grass, if this is the globe?
On the globe should

be everything. I hatch myself. The grass
doesn’t lose its clearness.

 

Habemus Papam

The niches store the sheds of
snakes. The laugh in the wicker

flask, in the grated white musk.
The majority of Bistritzas.

Shells converge on posters and
in animal bladders. On the

fences twist spoor of sheep.
They scratched themselves.

They were cold. Then they went
to their stall. But I slid myself

shut with the chain and leafed
through the monography

of Morandi, until the white smoke
announced the new pope.

We Stretched Him and Realized He is Bulgarian

Eraser, his trunk scrubs monsieur, he’s
stiff from a tall wooden tub carried on

his shoulders. Angles of light plank
the fence. If the rib is bent

a circle is made. The stick. We found him
among leaves in the ravine. He had

a stone on his mouth. Marigold rain fell
on little clouds. Probably they hid him.

Probably they dressed him in the sailing
shirt. He didn’t smoke the pipe.

Braque was not his brother. He also
wore a soosh-kavatz, but pushed it

in the bush. We discovered him on
a family trip, picking blueberries.