ice-fishing

sit at a bus

stop –

passers-by

rush by,

cars drive by

 

an enormous hook

swings in the air

everything that was

impaled on it

 

one car after another

bites

 

through their cheeks

huge drops of blood

drip and

fall on

groves of gold

where blackest night

hides

where the wind touches

a sapling and you only hear music

and never a curse

 

so

they flounder and gasp

the same way this morning

swallowed you

Translated by Joseph Grikis and Daiva Litvinskaitė