AT HALF PAST SEVEN IN THE MORNING

I can barely keep my eyes open
on the street a sweeper truck
and a boy looking at the scene from the lee
of his mother's shoulders

young men jump out of the truck
they talk to each other
in some melodic language
unknown to me
as if the intonation is given to them by birds
they roll up their sleeves at the sound signal
they take the container, they empty the garbage

the boy is amused by the sight
he waves his hands
one of the young men stands out
takes off his gloves
wipes his hands on his overalls
from the passenger's seat takes a toy
and gives it to the boy

the sky is awakening
spaces are approaching us
I withdraw as not to disturb
I am thinking about Wislawa and
Vermeer's Milkmaid
the world as it is
it still doesn't deserve an end

NATURE OF DEPARTURE

a man can get sick
from longing for unknown worlds
from which
neither forward nor backward
nor where did you
nor where you intended
not even the language
not to any part of the world
nor the curiosity of random passers-by
of irregular shape
without a solid center
deprived of abundance of things
that's how they inhabit
free landscapes
trees entangle their roots
the wind lays down the sprouts
the petioles of the place are tied
for the umbilical cord
and they enter the round eyes
at that point
the man is most alive
ready to give birth
to himself again

PEOPLE ARE IN A HURRY MORE THAN HOUSES

they are big and small
those without a roof
green overgrown with ivy
with round windows
whose mornings like a submarine
like a belly
fall on a precisely determined
walnut kitchen table
bare feet over there
move in all directions
different sizes, shapes
they collide
my legs cat's feet, children's
and the heavy ones with three pairs
wool socks
they all flow to the windows
hands open them
they ventilate
they send them off, they wave
they miss the big views
that inhabit interior landscape
young buds are collected
twigs for kindling
dry leaves in jars
instead of ajvar and jam
on the kitchen shelves
and those with books,
to stand there for a long time
after the last tenants
leave the house

there is one small house
sunrises and sunsets
and the whole sky is her roof
I place it in the tongue
to remember me
while standing on it
the last brick made of letters

WHAT THE BIRDS THINK OF US

194 kilometers of blades*
they flash on the lawns
distributed across the center point

what does the lynx think of wire
the maimed does not know about
administrative borders
freedom of movement
is paid with razor's hugs

what do they think about blades
Sutla Mura Kupa and Dragonja
in them the fish sent a note of protest
their bodies float
along the banks of rivers
like pebbles

what does the boy think about the wire
he walked through the forests for days
across minefields, rivers
the police caught him
he said he was fifteen, he wanted asylum
but they beat him
and sent him back
they always sent them back

what does the inmate of
Márianosztra know about wire
as he passes from the cells
of former monastery
towards the machine building
eight hours a day
he works in two shifts
a hundred times a day
through the back door of the plant
rolls reels of razor-wire
and loads them onto trucks towards the border
for a monthly fee
of 30 thousand forints

before returning to the prison building
he wipes his hands, lights a cigarette
knowing everything, he says nothing
he just stands there and looks at the sky