There’s always a chainsaw somewhere,

the high whine of a drill, somebody building something or

tearing it down, fastening metal to metal.

Almost everywhere the sound of the human will,

the bluster of an engine, the grind of a blade, the wheel,

hammering, repair.

Someone nailed to a cross, someone leashed, lashed.

Someone hung from a scaffold: listen: the squeak of the rope:

more hammering.

Kill him with his own gun, one woman shouted, Kill him with his own gun.

What have we made? What are we making?

And who or what made us that we should make such things as we do and did?

We grow smaller—we break things,

then turn to each other and beg for what no human can give.

If you leave,

he said,

keep who you are.

Don’t let the world

and its desires

ruin you.

But after the dream

came the habit.

And no way to fix it.

What is gone

cannot be put back.

Damage

from the inside.

What I have become

is warmed over

with that now

ancient dream.

What I was

is vanished.

I came back home

but I came back

gone.

Bosopet sem in tudi ne bosopet,

gledam belino stene cerkve.

Odmisli gospoda s klobukom, gospod s

klobukom se spremeni v smrt.

Gospod tudi grgra.

Melje svoje oči

in jih razporeja. V dlaneh mu

ostajajo marelice. Bi mi skušali kaj

naročtit? Če se samo vetrovko polije

z bencinom, zgori samo vetrovka?