The poetry of Marko Pogačar, translated by Andrea Jurjević

Sunday Collector

My heart carried an endless Sunday 

like a muffled murmur. 

with each heartbeat time ripened into a song:

autumn curled up in every corner, stuffed hands into pockets,

chestnuts into newspaper cones. the deception of leaves kept winning. 

chestnuts, still hot, rushed into hungry throats,

newspapers awaited a force stronger than wind, stronger than fire.

awaited the hand to pick them up, as if all the longing of the world 

g...