The Rise of the Zebra

The rise of the zebra hurts the zebra.
As if she would breathe fire.
If  we put natural gold and the black blue into
the loaf of  bread it bursts.

Find and shove,
open and wound.

The oars when kneaded in and then stretched,
row.
How they bump into wheat
on the white surface again.

Mašenka!
There are three corpses in Gravel Cave.
One keeps silent.
One snowballs.
One conceals.

More Poems by Tomaž Šalamun