You died in Paris, unremembered,
and I’m still alive.
Yet I don’t have a soul,
at last, that’s what they say,
your people — the lover,
mother, and the clean
conscience tying them together.
All I have left is a transparent body
inside of which transparent doves
hurl themselves on a transparent ladder.
A body is enough to fuck, the lover proves,
regardless its tumult of birds.
That is a strange thing, being
smashed like this, unprepared,
the brain constantly in the heart.
Your own skin appears like
a dress you can no longer wear.
You become, how shall I put it ?
— Removed. Nothing is yours
except the air, maybe, and dust.
Dear Josip, since the bullet hit your head,
spilling the purples, the golds,
and the thousands blossoms within,
is your fusion with this world
over or, has it intensified ?
I wonder, because of your presence.
In this city, you are the only one
following me with a kind eye.
I’m a phantom in your hometown,
as I’ve always been, except now
I’m calmer — unbound.
I used to scream in cars,
on those abandoned roads
that the constellations contradict.
I used to hope so hard sometimes
I couldn’t bear it anymore.
I suppose you saw me, and
by seeing I mean, your blue eyes
becoming larger and larger,
bluer, like the flames in my chest.
My fault, I think, was not to be
a slav. Yes, that’s right.
Not one of yours. One
whose suffering is none
— to Easteners.
As I walked in Zagreb, without illusion,
hard and clear as crystal, you seemed
haloed by fire, loved here like a candle
that burned in a forgotten corner,
loved because it burnt down,
loved for its burning down,
and it happened
and lasted for ever —
you loved me
for that same reason.
You’re like the only one man
left in a thousand.
And that man holds
a gun to his temple
in what is a perfect
infinite noon.

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