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pastorale: poem for an avenue of fallen trees
A cane non magno saepe tenetur aper
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.