Pesem

Kar pogledam, se začne premikati;
kje je zagotovilo, da nekoč ne bom
samega sebe spodil iz postelje,
kot vsaka pesem iz sebe izganja
pesem?
Jasnost ni rešitev: največ znak
odsotnosti ali na zadnjo stran prebegla
pripadnost.
Kar pogledam, se začne premikati
v obotavljanju globokega strahu.
Prvo rojstvo je sramežljivo potlačeno,
kaj šele drugo,
in spanje v isti postelji je zaporedje
slik z enim samim rezultatom:
negibnost
v prestreljenih sanjah o vzajemnem
uničevanju izkustva in pomena.
Vse se odpira, popki kot rane, rane kot
vrata, vrata kot vlažne veke na dnu jezera,
dolgovi, zapisani znotraj peščenih ur.

Poem

Everything I look at starts to move;
where is the assurance that I won’t one day
chase myself out of bed,
just as each poem keeps expelling from itself
a poem?
Clarity is no solution: at most a sign
of absence or to the last page deserted
appurtenance.
Everything I look at starts to move
in hesitation of deep fear.
The first birth is shyly repressed,
not to mention the second,
and sleeping in the same bed is the sequence
of images with a single result:
immobility
in bullet-sifted dreams of mutual
destruction of experience and meaning.
Everything is opening,
buds like wounds, wounds like
doors, doors like moist lids at the bottom of a lake,
debts encrypted inside hourglasses.

Translated by Ana Petkovšek.