THE GARDEN OF THE FINZI-CONTINIS

before I sit at
the desk, I’ll wash my hands, poetry
needs no tractates on itself,
I’ll bite a fresh bone, it won’t
decay in the gunpowder
of language, in dust and bromide    
in a handful of rain, I’ll look for a warm
woman and you will not touch
a single word if she hasn’t asked you
about her, and I will close my eyes and dive,
and then, all dead will come down from the attic,
black and solemn boatmen sail
from amazed mouth and
sing in broad strokes and aloud
above openings of sky

VRT FINCI CONTINIJEVIH

VRT FINCI CONTINIJEVIH

prije nego li sjednem za ovaj
stol, oprat ću ruke, poezija
ne trpi traktate o sebi, za-
gristi svježu kost, ona ne
dopušta da propadne u barutu
jezika, prahu i bromu to malo
kiše, potražit ću toplu ženu,
jer nijednu riječ nikada nećeš
dodirnuti da te ona ne pita o
sebi, zatvoriti oči, zaroniti, i,
tada, kreću s tavana svi mrtvi,
iz začuđenih usta isplove crni
ozbiljni barkaroli i širokim
zamasima pjevaju glasno
nad otvorima neba