Translated by Rod Mengham

But when he conducts the survey of his loved ones

we won't be in it, even though we loved the encore

of the seasons, the carnival of stars, heaven's heavy-breathing

flooded with light on that August night when

we reversed smoothly into the side of a forest

hooting at the curbs, splitting our sides

the summer was so green and so depraved.

What we needed was to sink down onto the

soft banks of dawn light, but night was

scooping us up into a heaven of meteors.

Well, they order these things differently in other parts.

When we stood swaying on wobbly legs

cigarettes stuck to our lips, two ships at anchor

giving each other the once over, sending unreadable signals-

don't you pine to be just a perspective

in the field of my vision, not something dazzled

by the pale flickers on your shades?

The atmosphere is so oppressive. It's as if my days

had been inventoried and your lips prepared

to say, well, on that particular occasion

(which was also the last) fate

made up its mind, kept a weather eye open

insofar as the all-embracing one spirits off

into the future something lost long ago

that life withdrew from circulation

like a meteorite. And ever since

every step you take follows the road to nowhere

and that's where I'll be waiting.

—translated from the Polish by Rod Mengham

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