Blossom and Blood

I’m the fruit whose skin breaks,
a container grabbed with a crane.  
Gulls are bloodthirsty and hungry.
Their plucked feathers descend
as I climb. Booms, silky booms
in the frozen boat’s throat, between
the sliding rusty doors of the tanker.
What do I do here if my seal breaks?
How should I grease my black and blue shoulders?
Hey, little stoker, I squeezed your head       
under the ceiling for I started to breathe.
Your limbs smashed on brown metal
cannot be washed away. A mosquito is caught in oil.
They nail the box Illyria on a stick
and when the lid is pressed to the ceiling
where should it go if not inside? You resemble
an old fly’s turd looking partly gray on a light bulb.
Shall we throw spears? I don’t have a tool.
And the huge trunk with a pulley coming closer
owns nothing. I’m shifted around.
Machines are putting me on the other dock.
And from there a train through
dark tunnels and damp gorges
or in the sun, sun among wheat spikes,
an hour before the arch goes out and the lights
of cars and houses ignite. How should I
remember you, little stoker. I’m almost
unloaded. Only a lintel or two,
only a distance traveled on foot and then    
that closeness with the heart shown by your
hand. A span. A span. You slap wood
as if a piano, you measure the tone.
Such sweet sounds Pythagoras takes.

Cvet in kri

Cvet in kri

Sad sem, ki mu poka koža,
kontejner, zagrabljen z žerjavom.
Galebi so krvoločni in lačni,
njihovo spukano perje se niža, ko
grem jaz gor. Treski, svileni treski
v zmrznjenem žrelu ladje, med
zarjavelimi drsnimi vrati tankerja.
Kaj delam tu, če mi poka šiv?
S čim naj namažem svoje podplute rame?
Hej, kurjaček, glavo sem ti sprešal
pod stropom, ker sem zadihal. Tvoji
udi, zmečkani na rjavi kovini, ne
grejo več dol. Komarja ujamejo v olje.
Na palico pribijejo škatlo Ilirije,
in ko se pokrov pritisne ob strop,
kam naj gre, če ne vanj? Kot star,
na pol posivel drek muhe na žarnici si.
Ali naj mečemo kopja? Nimam orodja.
In ogromen kovček s škripcem, ki se
bliža, nima ničesar. Prekladan sem.
Stroji me položijo na drugi dok.
In od tam naprej z vlakom po
temnih tunelih in vlažnih soteskah,
ali pa v soncu, soncu med žitnimi klasi,
uro preden ugasne obok in zagorijo
luči avtov in hiš. Kako naj se
spomnim nate, kurjaček, saj sem
skoraj že raztovorjen. Še preklada,
dve, še razdalja za peš in potem
tista bližina s srcem, ki jo pokažeš
z roko. Ped. Ped. Poudariš, udariš po
lesu kot na klavir in ton zmeriš.
Sladko sluhu vzame Pitagora.