(trans. from the Polish by Piotr Florczyk)





A few sturdy spruces, from which everything trickles

down, where it breaks into the tiny and smaller, clumped,

stitched when magnified. A few decent perspectives;

the rest colorless or dirty brown, with blackish freckles

on the uneven flagstones. A few dachshunds and their

owners, a restless crowd in the back, against the pale

details: old gravel, slates of bark, dampness behind a kiosk.

An interior granulation, a crumbling inwards. In several

places eyes dead-set, the vertical and horizontal suddenly fixed,

inscribed into frames, to be deposed later as if from a cross, as if

from a solid rock. Varsus moments announcing the evening,

and then the heartless night ending with the yellow horsewhip

of the east.








*A square in Opole.

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