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Moss has drawn your portrait of the bark of a tree
Along a darkened forest waves of light went misplaced
in the cove of your underarm
Panic grabs me
and every decision of mine is an ivy
that changes its mind
It climbs not to the skies
You tell me I turn toward silence
like a magnetic needle
and all I do is envisage
the bluish rain of angels
It soothes me
although on the ride to the flat
I offer but a room botany
lunch on a table cloth strewn with daisies
After lunch you fall asleep
and the waiting for you has caked over so much
I just don’t know how am I to wash it off
a bathroom shelf
A hundred meters to the west
shadows play foxes
as they run across the street
Translated from the Croatian by Volga Vukelja-Dawe
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