I do not know whether you felt good,
the clenched lips are drifting away with soil,
we will bury the strands of hair, underwear, nails,
for smell and marks not to –

I cock my ear
and it is left there,
in the stomach, in the digestive juices,
in the rockburst. What is behind this mountain,

that after being spat out on the hillside,
it is growing? And it decides whether it was good,
whether it will be good. The cosmic certainty
in these old crosses. I felt good.
I made myself feel good. While writing.


tłumaczenie: Marcin Chruściel