MINESTRONE Poem by Marko Pogačar

Put your arms around me and I'll let you imagine me naked.
from this day on I'm a
Judith Butler of male emancipation.
I stopped thinking because it leads nowhere. from now on I look
when looking is necessary.
if I really had to think now, it would be about God.
or, once again, about emptiness. the space between arms,
dark matter,
what's left between the vegetables, it doesn't matter,
the point is in no-man's-land.
about how beautiful the hair is when it's falling out. about the last days in May,
the space when emptiness goes black.
when you imagine me, that's the filling up of emptiness, again.
at the key point
everything is brought down to exotic particles. minestrone. you have no clue
what's inside, but everything works. the thing is, believe me,
in what's in between.
well-filled emptiness is the limit of love.
the principle is webbed toes, imagine me
before I do that to you.
embrace me somehow not only with your arms. arms are rural weapons.
leave them to the Croats.
take out all the silicone and make a house from it. nail yourself to the wall
like a virtual shadow, a step forward,
into the volume of defense and time of unconditional freedom, point of clear danger.
be considerate as you're mixing the minestrone.
let it be as thick as possible. reduce emptiness to the smallest possible measure.
even those who cower in those plants sometimes become depressed
from all that space around them.