I try and answer with a stone as heavy
By asking a friend if it rains when it rains.
If it doesn't, our building, of course,
Collapses and we struggle up,
Asking each other which question is best to ask
Now these girders see the sun again?
I think: this is a palace, as if collapse
Always leads to palaces, and palaces
Always lead to flight. A plane,
I know, is heading to Ljubljana,
And onward, the next heads home.
It doesn't matter: there is a place
And this place can be a palace or a plane,
A collapsed building in Ljubljana,
A siren, a mumbled 'rains when it rains,'
We will always seek an interlocutor
To explain: this is what matters,
This is exactly what will take us home.
Silhouette of stranger and map
Which tells where her elbow is,
The flock of cranes, the gunshot,
The miscellaneous ruins on walks with you,
My loose rapture, you who holds my candle,
Tell me, must we be as alone as this?
Must we walk together asking which flower is red?
Or Ljubljana , does anyone come to this city?
Do we arrive before we leave?
I put my hand on your shoulder,
You ask what I am thinking because your shoulder
Will never be enough of an answer,
Nor the bread, nor the way the light sidles through still water,
Not even the care which put my hand on your shoulder.
We stop at our skin. We wait for the dogs to claim us.
We continue and continue to see Ljubljana,
The city which no one ever visits,
The palace where we learn the sirens must be enough.