Crumbling

on the flattest part of the atlas

people eat spiders, there is no

fear of ecology there, invisible

islands of cancerous plastic. there

the deserts have floated too, no dregs

vacation in archeologists' eyes. roads to them were

overdosed vessels of asphalt, perfectly slender cacti

instead of billboards. the weight of the years we dragged

were the norm, normal-sized beds, normal-sized

fear of revolutionaries' machetes. the clouds peeled the crust

of the sky, beneath was the ultramarine then black again

desert night, local club supporters that torch city containers

after defeat, the smoke we pass through as though passing a bad

experience of a market in Bombay. I watch you

in the most final version as you clean your wrinkles with dry needles

from pines. outside the same pressure of metal scaffolding, oversized

dresses of unfamiliar buildings, above them

asbestos roofs, thousands of tiny arrows

desiring sweet sleep on the lungs.

they cannot touch us, we have immunity

of the masses, serially joined pots into a chassis of the body

ready for commander's order.

when it gets rough, I crumble you into warm crackling

of sand, into a desert storm that will ravage

avocado plants.  that way we will get more easily to

the clearing. after us there will remain one more

bad picking.

Translated from Croatian by Antonia Jurić

Mrvljenje

na najravnijem dijelu atlasa

ljudi jedu paukove, tamo nema

straha od ekologije, nevidljivih

otoka kancerogene plastike. tamo

su doplutale i pustinje, nikakvi talozi

odmor u očima arheologa. ceste do njih bile su

predozirane žile asfalta, savršeno vitki kaktusi

umjesto billboarda. balast godina koje smo vukli

bile su prosjek, prosječno veliki kreveti, prosječan

strah od mačeta revolucionara. oblaci su ljuštili koru

neba, ispod je bila ultramarin plava onda opet crna

pustinjska noć, navijači koji zapale kontejnere grada

nakon poraza, dim kroz koji prolazimo kao kroz loše

iskustvo tržnice u Bombayu. gledam te

u konačnoj verziji kako čistiš bore suhim iglicama

borova. vani isti pritisak metalnih skela, prevelike

haljine nepoznatih zgrada, nad njima

azbestni krovovi, tisuće malih strelica u

želji za slatkim snom na plućima.

oni nam ništa ne mogu, imamo imunitet

mase, serijski spojene zdjelice u šasiju tijela

spremnog za naredbu generala.

kad zagusti, mrvim te u toplo krckanje

pijeska, u pješčanu oluju koja će poharati

nasade avokada. tako ćemo lakše na

čistinu. iza nas ostat će još jedna

loša berba.