The plan of plans
one should live as quietly as possible. we live in dangerous times;
the balcony doors are killing the birds.
we live surrounded by retirees, and being surrounded is
one step toward surrendering.
each time we are to say something, the vent hood sucks in the fumes,
something white, paper plane like, flies out.
after an accident
the neighbors dig out the black box from the rubble,
attempting to grasp the gist.
the world is what we see from the windows.
when we look through the balcony doors, it seems bigger.
it doubles on the outside if we count the glass.
the birds killed by the nonexistence of sky.
one should live as quietly as possible. walk on one's toes.
when they harden into hoofs, cover them with a sponge.
hunker down, train the armpits so they don't fold over.
press the earphones in the ears, like tiny shower heads
showering the noise inside
so we do not hear the clash, but find a bird
and think: the neighbors are attacking us with the Chinese goods.
and if, by some chance, we hear what is on the outside,
it will be quiet,
like it is before any accident.
© translated by Boris Gregorić