The Color of the Bell

Tomaž Šalamun translated by Michael Thomas Taren

Where do you put orange dust? Do you
care about the kitschy fern?

Here. The bed with the baldachin.
My body boils. It's on

the slow way to death watch.
Then it tilts its head

sideways, like a little pauper. Its
neck doesn't stretch anymore.

The apes calm down. The monumentality
takes the night from cows.

Gray, immovable, in the heights of
day she lies in the middle

of the road. She, a foreigner here in
Portuguese Goa. Go to India!