The fall birthed the tissue
perhaps I don't know much about life, but I do know about colors;
when the cherry and the house grow yellow, the boots need blackening.
a devil's job, and the devil never sleeps, not even in the afternoon,
he crawls under the nails and later is hard to wash off.
the yellow house madly quakes on the puddle.
farther off, the puddle ruffles the cherry tree like
a merchant does in his booth with a cheaply made tee,
the last pitch of nature's to underwrite its colors.
a snail attempting to drag a canopy back into the house,
thinking that every house is made like his,
when the hardest bit of self is extracted.
like a cuckoo bird the cowgirl Zdenka gets in and out of the house.
she too drawn out to surface by the yellowness. a good day exchanged at the well
she spreads over me like the processed cheese she shares the name with.
she is bald because of the cancer and wears a pink scarf.
she should have worn a yellow one, or at least a black one.
this way, once written down, the life sounds unconvincing.
still, the good side of the colors is their adaptable symbolism;
if you just want to see someone live,
why not allow them a bit of the pink-colored lie.
the puddles freeze, the ice blackens from the glance at the boots.
now to get inside the house and attempt to type life in arial black
the blackest font, as if the patina of nail dirt
had crept across the keyboard, to surrender to the poetry's aim
of overcoming life in which it is drawn,
to extract from a soft tissue even softer one.
and in doing so the house is not created at all.
© translated by Boris Gregorić