Wheel With a Single Spoke (16 page)

Where?

. . . The carriage passes through the town square.

I run after it, in tears.

I ask the grass: Did a carriage pass here?

The grass does not respond.

I ask the trees: Have you seen a butterfly in a carriage?

The trees go quiet and drop their yellow leaves.

– O God, is the carriage still ahead of me?

My God, how can I catch it?

– Follow the line of blood, you dolt,

says the beggar without eyes.

These lowly glasses

are the bodies

god gives us, god gives us,

don't be the one to break them, in your hand

don't be the one to break them.

Better to sip our little brains,

angel soup, poorly cooked;

better to sip the heart's boozy blood

cut with lots of Danube.

Leave us, if you can –

a table where we can lay our corpses,

where those who know us can come,

with candles of mourning.

O, be patient and do not break

in your holy hand

the little colored glass through which

our parents looked so often.

The shadow of a leafy branch

blown by the wind

did not strike, O lord, my body

it only cast a chill

over my talk of love.

Pass, O word, if you have a shadow,

and leave your incomprehensible stain

on my soul from today, yesterday, the day before;

on the thickest, the very thickest.

Sheep complain of much too much wool;

the moment is suffocated by too much time.

Leave A on me so it will stay

intimate, a living Olympus.

I am trading myself with myself, O lord, –

for a shadow, goat,

or stone.

We are drawing lots

against a heart extracted from a stranger.

The witness asks: Heads or tails?

Neither heads nor tails, responds the antic chorus.

Hearts, pure and simple.

Hearts on every side?

Hearts on every side!

And where is the Individual with a capital D?

Where else? In death.

If you are drawing lots against his heart

where else would he be?

The Individual with a capital D is in death, d in lowercase.

– One will notice right away

we have lost none of our

beautiful green.

– But you are not grass,

mangy horse.

– Ah, my lord, we are not grass,

but one will notice immediately

we have lost none of our

pyramid.

– But you are not stone, O horse!

You are not stone!

– Ah, pardon, but certainly one will notice

we have lost none of the rain.

– But you are not autumn,

mangy horse.

You are not autumn.

– Ah, pardon, but certainly one will notice,

one will notice, certainly one will notice . . .

To hell with anyone who makes his bed

on a Serb's heart.

He'll never sleep a second.

He will shout at the great bird

that stands in place of air

in Serbia:

I can't breathe, I can't breathe!

Bird, why did you take away my air?

And the bird will answer:

This air is not for breathing.

This air is for singing.

You live in me

like marrow, the bone

like rain, the cloud

like sight, the eyes

But I am dead

as a gun shot

at the memories

of a newborn

But I am no longer

like the space

a star cut through

screaming

But I am you

from the day before

from the days before

from never before.

with my father's hounds, –

but we were not at hand

Autumn on autumn fell over the cadavers

of dogs and hounds,

but we were not at hand

We had not been born

yet our death had been calculated

by computers

When we are not

when we do not have hands, –

we will be at hand, we two.

like a passenger who knows

his plane is going down

in flames

I burn, it hates,

I went, it goes

The words
I am
are to blame

that
I am
.

Lord, make me a bed

from the body of a shark.

Let it be my pillow,

let it devour my sleep

when I lay, when I Lord,

when I Lalalala and Bam and Bong

Lord, make me a sheet from caterpillars,

nettles, monkshood.

Let me be digested by a belly

of crystal

O, body in body, my death

is a flower

in the hand of an even greater

death

if the flesh of my body is your track;

what kind of apple are you

if my life is your branch?

I live within the trill

of nightingale

I sleep with my neck on a high C

and shoe my foot

with a saxophone

Move, the hammer shouts at me

move,

move you iron nail idiot,

move;

can't you see I'm driving you through a palm

for a crucifixion?

How they would sing,

and the beer, good lord, how good!

. . . when He turns about Himself

driving us.

And what a shot, right

at the cobweb, the cobweb!

. . . when He turns about His own being

driving us,

the star.

They kiss, they hug.

They love, yes, they love!

. . . when He turns about Himself

driving us.

And those children with swollen bellies

starved to death . . .

. . . when He turns about Himself

driving us.

The general pins a medal on a soldier.

The soldier kills an enemy soldier.

The enemy general pins a medal

on an enemy soldier.

The enemy soldier kills a soldier.

A woman gives birth to a boy.

The boy will carry the name of his father.

And what a goal, knocked the cobwebs!

Our team won, again.

They move into another house,

but don't like how this one looks

either . . .

It's snowing; don't forget your scarf

when you leave.

If you have a headache

I can give you

a sure cure, believe me.

Why did they ban absinthe?

Who cares? Beer's good too, it's good!

. . . when He turns about Himself

driving us.

Slow down! Slow down!

You know it scares me.

No more smoking, friends,

I swear it's bad for you.

Here they come again with their ideas!

In spring, I'll go riding.

– Could you tell me if the engineer

still lives here?

– Here.

– I don't want it.

– Take it.

– I won't.

The general said:

– Whoever doesn't sweat in training

doesn't lose blood in fighting.

The doctor said:

– Your blood is Rh-negative,

but don't let it bother you.

We know that with some people,

it passes in time.

The mayor cuts the ribbon.

The midwife cuts the cord.

Alexander the Macedonian cuts the Gordian Knot.

Hellas, Hellas,

but how many people today speak

true Greek?

. . . when He turns about Himself

driving us.

This much, do not forget:

he was a living person,

he lived,

you could touch him.

This much, do not forget:

he drank through his mouth, –

he had skin

he dressed in fabric.

This much, do not forget, –

he could have sat

at the table with us,

the table of the last supper.