I approach you smoothly through the
blowhole of a beached whale its
heart that weighs a tonne emits
poisonous copper on tourist's heads
they will all turn black and go quiet.
this is a poem about olives.
actually about the season of pickled olives
June releases its glue the city is
spreading through beach umbrellas love is
a wrinkled scene of a car crash
you cannot stop looking at it.
if it happens, you have to be close.
my shape is an opaque jar brimming with
electrolytes into me you soak your fingers
and do not know how to get them out dry
tonight I started removing the sharp
roof of your house the mice fled into
something softer than a pleura.
I sink the floors of the house into a single spot.
you have never seen her but you want to touch her
the spot on which tectonic plates sleep
and in which the warm uranium from Japan nests
I am becoming stiff I need time
to reach the climax I am a burn scar that
ripens slowly you must wait for me because mercury
is as of recently no longer kept in houses.
you measure warmth by the pace of my arrivals.
shade will bury us all equally
and how come you have never seen joined
two ends of olives I left a space in between
for a bite through which I approach you and
that freshness drips from the throat down the hips
to that spot you have never seen.
on it you will raise a camp as light as soup
in summer I will come inside unload my length
and the swarms of tourists I keep underneath the armpits.
I will be the wet body in front of electric fence.
the only thing relevant will be which side you approach me from.
Translated from Croatian by Antonia Jurić