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Roofer, Roofer, Will You Subsist?

On the boulevards, on the trees,
in the warm black cellars of rime,
there is the face on the little plate,
on the face the grapes, a millboard.

People shift from the roofs
of houses and discover
corridors. I buy Le Monde
on the corner of la rue des armes.

The rime curved my street,
it crumpled it and swallowed. It
cannot reach it. Although I know she'll
soon be back, maybe la rue des armes

does not exist. But this will not be in my
lungs. In the lungs the mana is
consumed by fire. There the decision
is made if we will boil the world,

what we'll protect, what we will own.
How to toss dustbins from the car
and to sail in the rum. And on wings,
on wings, people settlers! Don't stomp

the roofs of houses. To want, to
want French francks in the slot. To
wish, to wish to drink ones own head
in la rue Delambre. To kill oneself!

     Translated from the Slovenian by Michael Thomas Taren and the author