Sometimes we seem closer to ashes; we live in patches, fibres.
Fragments of furrows. We dream of empty and ruinous places,
pane-barren windows, windowless houses. The nighttime city resembles
a chasm, pus trickles from the brick walls.

Sometimes I dream of you dead, as white as a sheet. And I could cut you up
into pieces, bury you. If ever, someday, we run out of air, then these seeds
will blossom and rot from the inside. Once you swallow them – they will be
fibres, patches, fragments of furrows. And sometimes we seem closer to these meanings:
I dream of you dead and torn like a sheet. Standing against light

you are sewn entirely from edges; your mouth is full of them.


translated by Ola Bilińska
for www.biweekly.pl