mild winter, tea, a few cigarettes, then a walk in the fog through the town. everything’s thought out thoroughly, no more madness, no dance. the poem is blind. Gregor is late as usual. I warned him that he’ll end up in a poem. big snowflakes from artificial fabrics in Ljubljana’s old town.
Roza with his ear-flap cap, like some rabbit, passes me on a bike along the green lazy river. I see a piece of grey sky in it
and a dragon nailed to the bridge. in the sky over the marketplace a scattered flock of big black birds.