by Petar Matovic

The paths spread out like a sediment from an overturned cup
of coffee, chaotic visions. Automobiles in the rush hour: the sudden
multiplying of tapeworms across the roads: I am a joint
of a huge parasite, inhaling oil fumes with
pleasure: the peace after work, in which I could
steep the steep of the just: agnus dei.

Beams flash against the metallic hood, they break against rapid bumpers. Torsos
behind windscreens, tireless portraits
from an office, from glass partitions /memory: without a word, routinely: wrist, signet
rear view mirror! / Then I spot them: the history which overtakes you on the highway,
without a turn signal.

What an idyllic sight: the asphalt is steaming, roadmen in fluore scent overalls, the
pathway is trembling with machines
in a haze of the Indian summer’s smog. And what a tremendous corridor
    this is
the speedometer is warning fatefully about worlds
into which you cross over, now already experienced like a tightrope walker.

Translated by Ivana Rogar