Mar/Apr 2016 • Vol. XXXVIII No. 2 PoetryMarch 1, 2016 |

Delivering Milk in a Bus

From the Slovenian.   Sun in the reflection, I have eyes on the puppies. If you slip into the silver trash can for milk and your head conceals the lid, will you wait for deer and blueberries? The bus comes at five. Gravel is given to all of us. If the arm is thin, so thin that it won't lift the lid, will anyone look for you? It's better to be out in the cold than covered with gum. With a leap an albino nearly cuts his head. Tall, an encampment, a rope. He blows through the blanket on Mallarmé's head on his knees. I'm also thinking. If I were sewn into a bag, who would carry me up the hill between Hvar and Milna? Would I have to roll?

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