Translated by Brian Henry
They’re calling me. The arsonists of cypresses.
I stroked bunnies in my palms.
He rose at dawn. He rose at dawn.
They’re embracing me. The tiger that stomped on the tribe.
It coiled the roads like flax around legs.
Die, Tomaž! You no longer have a soul!
I photographed you with your mouth open
as you lay on the snow for the agreement
with the ravens. The hall that you
thought was rock was really
the rag of a red heartbeat.