* * *
I stick my head into the saltshaker.
A silver sphinx lies at the bottom.
I vaguely recall an article
that warned us about her.
But she’s already caught sight of me.
She addresses me in a salt encrusted voice.
It’s too late to escape.
She puts her paws around me
so I can’t slip away.
She tells me about loneliness among the crystals
about pepper’s threat and fatal misconceptions.
She’s harmless.
Her lids get heavy as she tells her story.
Tired from its meanings
she falls asleep, purring deeply.
I quietly break free from her grasp.
Were it in reach,
I would cover her back with a blanket.
* * *
In the fence’s retaining wall, enclosing the garden
a vein of gold is concealed.
Hordes of gold diggers come at night with hammers and chisels
and cling to the garden like it’s a stove.
Until nightfall they chip and hammer, attempting to pulverize the wall
and extract the vein. Desperate, they don’t know
that only erosion will manage to expose the wealth
the fence guards.
When it’s freezing, I watch the gold diggers’ futile effort from the window
The garden is filling up with damaged tools
that I sometimes gather and sell by the pound.
I’m poor as them,
but I watch the fence from the other side.
I catch a fleeting glint among the bricks one day
and the sun starts streaming on the garden.
For a moment I hold close to my nose the fragrant blossom
before I mix up the concrete.
Because if a chasa burst through the fence,
it wouldn’t leave me a merciful moment
to say farewell to my treasure.
* * *
Far beyond the town no trees grow.
The landscape is flattened and the air bleached.
I verify what I first read in the beggar’s teeth behind the ramparts,
the very beggar who rushed over to offer me his daughter
when I stocked up on sugar and spices at a kiosk.
That in roach infested corners and niches,
on sticky loading ramps,
in the soaked den of a stray dog
in the corrugated sheet of the beggar’s teeth,
that there and everywhere else
a small clean surface shines,
calm and empty like the desert beyond the town
where I first met
the beggar’s daughter alone.
* * *
You won’t see for a long time but the shell placed on the desk.
The massive shell nestled up to its waist by its own weight into the tabletop.
You will realize how effective it could be if you were to tie it to the end of stick.
Whose skull it would manage to split open and how much meat to provide.
Perhaps it would fit in the center of a spiral of light,
smeared with blood, it would entice pagan deities.
You are already reaching for it, but you notice the fine ash
that rests on the craggy surface of the counterclockwise spiral
and gradually smooths out the valleys and the peaks.
You don’t want to disturb the order of the settled particles.
Each has its place and role among the others
and disrupting the pristine randomness of their resting place would mean
habitat destruction here on the island in the middle of the writing desk.
You’re forced to surrender the tip of your spear.
Let it be covered in dust,
squat
and create new towns.
A pen and words remain here for you.
Seize them.
Watch the swarm gathering in the tangled ball
and tell stories that you started to spin without exhaling a single breath.
* * *
When the Earth rose, he lay on the table.
Windows stung like wild apples,
though he kept his lids open wide.
Tears ran in saline wrinkles
resembling the surrounding landscape.
They glide from the table to the floor,
devoid of unhappiness,
maybe only as much as each substance needs
to not break apart.
Translated by Ryan Scott