IT IS PINK

this nightgown is younger than me
this is my flower, before I die
I’ll shake off all pages
until I am reduced to a naked back
it is pink  

when I am at work I am a waitress
I pour water and I smile
my salary is too small
and it is better to keep on bowing  
before I move out from eyes for good
it is pink

I will not watch clouds any longer
in order not to be obliged to remember them
(it is pink
zora’s edition of m. proust
that I once toppled from the top of the ladder
and scattered from a box like childhood)

midday cracked in two
when I sat on the chair
my soul is so heavy when I am serious
I can hardly fit into myself

nightgown is that word that I
slipped into quietly indeed
like a number thirteen tram
where the driver and I  
veiled by black cataracts
drive the inside and fear  

it is pink
between both shoulders
when reality opens up
except that in this mirror
you are not so old,
not being a flower, you are the truth, a bulb
wherever I feel that you are  

RUZICASTO JE

RUZICASTO JE

ova spavacica mladja je od mene
to je moj scijet, prije nego umrem
ujutro otrusim stranice
da sam gola ledja
ruzicasto je

na poslu sam konobarica
dolijevam vodu i smjeskam se
moja je placa premalena
tako je bolje poklanjati se
dok se posve ne iselim iz ociju
ruzicasto je

u oblake vise necu pogledavati
da ih se ne moram sjecati
(ruzicasto je
zorino izdanje m. prousta
jednom sam ga s vrha ljestava
iz kutije prosula kao djetinjstvo)

spavacica je rijec u koju
doista sam potiho usla
kao u tramvaj broj trinaest
gdje vozac i ja
ispod crne mrene
vozimo unutrasnjost i strah

ruzicasto je
i izmedju oba ramena
kad se otvori stvarnost
ali u ovom ogledalu
ti nemas toliko godina
jer nisi cvijet, ti si istina lukovica
gdje god te taknem da jesi