1
Celo rdeča, prva in najglasnejša, je utišana,
ko se mahajoča na vse strani opoteče na polja koruze,
ko momljaje in vsa razpacana
vedri pod skalo
in gruli besede za jelena, potok, posteljico.
Rdeča je, nekje iz razdejane potonike,
ki se je zgrudila na mizi, iz očesnih ven,
z vršička tampona, iz vnetja in kraterja,
razmazana s svojo lastno odsotnostjo:
kaj preostane, če ni kože, ki bi jo poslikala?
2
Vsa popoldansko dremava,
njene veje ovite okoli vej,
da ti od nje otrdita jezik in ustno nebo.
Kadar zelena vstopi v tvoje oči,
te več ne zapusti.
Njeni odmevi se brez prestanka širijo,
potuje po sredini cest,
se pne nad njimi,
jih spreminja v žad.
Vzplamteva, vendar se njena velika morja v notranjosti ločujejo
za vse, kar sledi ravnim črtam – tovornjak ali mačka.
V svojem brlogu varuje mladiče.
3
Tako stežka izborjena, zmleta, zavreta, prekuhana in prepuščena fermentaciji,
brenčanje ali jeziček v tvojem ušesu, neomajno ubiranje strune.
Od slakovke do vene, nabrekle od vročine,
jo vleče k meglicam, tvoj pogled speljuje k stekanju prostorja v gozd.
Modra je vedno v tvojih mislih,
ko se odvrneš od dela in se ozreš navzgor,
ko se tvoja glava nagne v svoji čaši.
4
Spij, spij, spij puščavo in polje sončnic,
nikoli ni dovolj,
sečno rumena, skoraj zlata
perja in plavuti.
Rumena se šopiri s stebri ob svojem vhodu,
sončnimi puščicami.
5
Bela, izginjajoči rep,
ne obstaja. Pač, obstaja.
Pripada nebu, zemlji …
zemlji, ne, nebu.
6
Tvoja zenica je vsesana v luknjo,
celica za celico,
vse sobe, v katerih si živel,
so posrkane v sesalec,
v prvi kroglice rožnega venca, v drugi vrbe ob potočku.
Črna te z glavo naprej potegne na morsko dno,
z rokami se oprijemaš vrvi in zrak imaš oprtan.
Dihaj skozi usta. Zaupaj svojim rokam.
Prevod: Andrej Hočevar
1
Even red, first and loudest, is silenced
as it totters into cornfields and flirts,
as it murmurs and smudges,
shelters under the rock
grunting words for deer, stream, placenta.
From somewhere in the mess of a peony
collapsed on a table, from veins in an eye,
the tip of a tampon, a sore and a crater,
red is smeared with its own absence:
what remains when there’s no skin to paint on?
2
It roughens your tongue and roof of your mouth,
sleepy in the afternoon,
limb wrapped around limb.
At times when green enters your eyes
it won’t leave.
It sends out echoes endlessly,
travels down the centre of roads,
bends over them,
turns them to jade.
It flares, but its great inland seas part
for anything tracing straight lines – a lorry or a cat.
It shields the cub in its den.
3
So hard fought for, ground, boiled, simmered, left to ferment,
it’s the hum or reed in your ear, a string picked steadily.
From morning glory to a vein enlarged by heat
it’s drawn to mist, deflects your eye to space leaking into a wood.
Blue’s always in your mind
when you look up from a job,
when your head tilts in its cup.
4
Drink, drink, drink the desert and sunflower field,
there’s never enough,
urine yellow, the nearly gold
of feathers and fins.
Yellow boasts its elaborate gateposts
arrows of sun.
5
Disappearing tail,
white doesn’t exist. It does exist.
It belongs to sky, to earth…
to sky, no, to earth.
6
Your pupil is drawn into a hole,
cell after cell,
all the rooms you lived in,
sucked into a Dyson,
one containing rosary beads, another willows by the stream.
Black pulls you to the seabed head first,
your fists around a rope, air strapped to your back.
Breathe through your mouth. Trust your hands.
