Whirl by Tomaž Šalamun

Whirl

The word NORMAL imprints itself

inside the crypt and frightens

Glagolitic priests. I open the wall.

I sit on

the grass. I lean against

the wall. White lumps of lye,

what do you want? My eyes are

safe. The wall is a

mogul’s wall. No connection between a dolphin

in the air and a dolphin in

water. Those three drops are betrayal.

The moon is not a round pontoon,

it’s not. It’s not a piece of mantra in a little notebook.

I’m leaning on honey.

(Translated by Jeffrey Young and Katarina Vladimirov Young)