Translated from Polish by Mira Rosenthal
A river’s twists, the rusting crown of light
above the bank, a meadow burned by winter’s breath—
I come here on behalf of this world’s form,
its stunning attribute that never does it want
to keep the next day in quite the same dress.
Beyond the shore are chimneys altering the heat,
a sash of smoke above the grass, a spider’s web
in which we wade. This evening. In the ground
are five huge cisterns to amass all time
evaporated—most acute today. The river turns away,
flashes and in one fell swoop steals half the sky,
the color in your eyes. This evening. Only stars:
scales on lash and lid. To get in a single package
consciousness plus mortality, what a joke.
I say this in the dead of winter, on the third
planet from the Sun, spinning within the abyss.
