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from the March 2010 issue


You went to heaven, Sir,
forgetting your legs. Should we bury them?
My legs are rose-pink and they’re no good for a wafer.
Wanderer, the moon has its own saying. 
I would pour over your face with a bucket so
the water would flow onto your clothes.
Biscuits stick together differently than peanuts.
He started to nibble my girlfriend.
I remember the clear day and
the glimmering of frozen gutters.
We muse over those we love.                
We evaporate their most tender memories like a roast meat.               
You don’t move on upon love,
you move on upon a territory.
Then I liked him.
I stopped to shift you.
Ants like Somalian women  
have jugs on their head.
Doesn’t the happiness of falling into mud
have its share of gray color?    
Make a halt. Somebody walks the Franciscan street.
My body is my permanent possession.
Heaven was conceived with a knife.
In the hut there were no corn grains.
If you slip your little hoop around a harbor seal,
will it pour liquid on banks?
Everything in Korea is green.
Fresh mountain people kneaded into the town.
Maybe there’s an army in the horses.
Maybe someone spins cymbals in their belly.
In Aquilea the sand lays on the ground.
Night is in your head.
The space for a terrible long sleep.
Tell me.
I fried a carriage.
You listen because I tame beasts.
 Translation of "Premiki." Copyright Tomaž Šalamun. By arrangement with the author. Translation copyright 2010 Thomas Kane and Tomaž Šalamun. All rights reserved.

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