To Fly with Warm Stoves
at days when I love nobody
it rains and I let
newspaper boats float down the street.
In those boats pulled out of god's body long ago
there are neglected tin soldiers for me
to wipe them, polish them.
Still I do not splash into the first sewage
and I do not say thanks either, nor do I buy
someone a lottery ticket or stuff my pants with new books
for I give up the vows with nonbiblical cabinets.
if only to squint going back on a bus until I relax
and have my mind's eye teach me,
because of all human beings, to drive
an old golf just like captain Noa did
to straighten up, remove a cow from the road
tell everyone down at the turnaround our secret name
taken out of bread, our crumb, our pass.
If only to kiss you o god on a day like that
as something final
and before the post office at the turnaround closes
send some drunk his lost id card
expecting nothing in return.
in those days when I love nobody
the sky is different at dusk.
it gets vulgary gray, congealed,
inconsolable over little girls with a smoky
that on a crowded bus stand near the door
in need of motherly love.
if only the sky now opened above the city
and rain poured out of that disemboweled fish,
if only a thunder roared as though rising from a grave
so that I could run out of that storm
and make it home for the pancakes
with my dear, still unknow family wrapped in them.
So that I could,
in fact, some woman outside in the night rain
slowly take off my wet boots
and look out of the window at my future kids
as they grow on the carpet eating munchmellows,
read lines from Ecclesiastes to their handsome daddy
and out entire street fly up into the sky
lit by huge red-hot stoves
various special effects
from some Spielberg's Christmas foundation
for the curled promised children
Translated by Miloš Đuđević and Damir Šodan