This I guess is Friday or droplets have evaporated from
basement gyms so as to give birth to rain.
The city is loaded with the smell of bakeries, sinusoidal noise
of harsh heels, taxi drivers rest on the guillotine of an intersection with no traffic lights.
This is most certainly Friday fish heads poking out of the trash like unwanted cones
on a Christmas tree, insides dull-coloured and pretty.
This morning we carried out into the street a broken piano dead silence from the apartment left to the afternoon crowd.
Friday is bruises, aborted
child instead of a tattoo.
Translated from Croatian by Antonia Jurić