Tomaž Šalamun
translated by Brian Henry
A truck
hurtles through the saturated
air. The asphalt is
oily but
I cannot see it. I know
the anguish of Slovenia.
It spins and
softens what's in the middle
of the window frame:
unformed
dark karstic stones
placed on
glowing
neutral red
bricks. A leaf
has
greater compactness than
the birth
of an angel, even
if it falls carefully into the mouth
of a green aphid.