Cupolas, Tomaž Šalamun | Translation by Michael Thomas Taren

,

.

Timberlands on your little feet, the noble gloves on your

upper paws. Everything else is for cavities, for my

size. For your never-ending tender grove. Where are you

going, the white jet’s line, already wiping itself

on the blue sky? Will my flesh remember you? Do you

still tremble? Do you still scatter pain? You breathe

quietly, are you still: with your eyes wide open,

without your breath, you don’t believe, you don’t

believe. And in the angle of mountain lakes, still the tear

on your surface? They stole the shawl from us, our

witness. As the Lujo Vodopivec sculpture in the Koper

show. Break: thief, make yourself known! You see,

I almost forgot you, following the cruel surface

of my own face. Growl, if you love me, growl.