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106
Pumpkins Lying in the Field
The soot of morning mixing with the night.
A rushing train smarts from the summer-burnt fields.
Pumpkins are lying filled with peace underneath the
sun, reddening on the horizon.
As inconstant angels we are having a talk
under the arcades in the blue car with an open roof.
A light breeze is forcing the cream of clouds through
our fingers.
When we lie on the hard bed of argument,
the stars are stepping over us.
The night shakes its dark mane under the arcades and
hits the road.
On the run, I am eating the little stone apples from
the facades in Ljubljana
and the wind is blowing angel`s tears away as though
they were sand,
sending them to be sold in the supermarkets.
The hum of the sea around your
naked waist, which only half-gives itself
to an embrace – be it a letter.
The pumpkins are lying in the field,
the summer has left its fruits on the quiet tablecloths,
hid the timid pits into the fleshy armour of time.
The sun with its bare hand touches the forest,
the train for an instant tilts to the side, off the rails.