The God Poem by Marjan Pungartnik

The God



I still hold to it that the world is the fist
Of a god who pummelled it into the dust
passed out and forgot like any common drunk
to trip up my attention. The marbled stump
in the earth, the knuckled and unconscious shine
of a half-broken face staring into mine
as though I were the weather— yes, as though I
were able to wring out wetness from the air
as though I had wisdom as wide as the sky
and a ready medicine of words to share.
I can only cry, only lower my lips
to the coldness of that inanimate fist
only touch with rareness and only notice
a clapper of pigeons, the chime of a kiss.

Translated by Angus Reid

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