Legs on the Signpost

The insane devotee throbs with his
small legs, I don’t dare more.

The insane devotee throbs with his
small legs, I cannot do more. Bricks are

yellow, made of polyvinyl, fattish. We
people die. Lemme aks you, no l’s no

r’s from the Japanese and Chinese,
only the white mushroom,

a cataract. Animals are prolific. You
come from the valley, from your

spine. From something more? From
the risen sun. To smoke oneself

on the roof. To change clothes and
dry one’s hair in water lily.

More Poems by Tomaž Šalamun