LUSH, LUXURIANT, SUCCULENT

I calmed the elephant that trampled
my furniture. It caught sight of

Rembrandt with chapped
hands. He was red,

he was red, he was red in
the face. Let’s go below

the catacombs, Wittgenstein would say.
And they would snuggle. Rivers would

roar. The wagons would burn. The heather would
rise and tear itself from

the soil. We have no response,
we have no response, we’re stepping over

cardboard. Dead bodies flow over
the dwarves. They’re building a latrine.

—

from without wings until the end of the world–published by Press Brake

Buy it here

—

By Tomaž Šalamun 👍

Tr. by Brian Henry 👍