In the mirror behind his back
recent times are floating
red flags and standards of the Cossacks
(For Tomaž Šalamun)
Names and butterflies flutter around
while the literati picnic on the grass.
A huge sunflower dying in the sky…
Send the rain back to the clouds,
switch off the tiny stove-fire flames
of the bluets.
swims across Lago Maggiore
His revenge, a flooded village;
his harem, oysters.
Modigliani is not dead,
he is sculpting in Africa.
His fingers have shaped numerous heads
that all talk at the same time.
The messenger was so dead they sent him
to fetch life. It was easier said than done,
but an agreeable mare was duly
provided to him.
How does it feel to be the Cultural Attaché
for the North Pole, the ice
of the voiceless?
No encyclopaedia will give you shelter.