Days 2001
For Ryszard Krynicki
A leaden rainbow with flakes of the south
and just once, right after the TV news,
a high sky, running away like summer.
And when the acid-drop clouds
gleam, memories become so sweet,
they nauseate me.
Candy-floss sticks
to the cheek, pots of rasp juice
steam, meringue mix
foams. But each
of these miracles no taste
for unsight and untouch.
Me up
to my ears in tongues. From the dark
cave of the body me howl to the full
adjective. Me love wet,
no umbrella, in a rain of ink.
Me sail the sea in convoy
and drown in a shot glass.
Enough of this good,
this everything, this very strange.
Breathless ash comes up from the south
and covers the last reddening
in the gold frame of a description.
And for all our goodnights
spittle brings silence.
The word – well, OK:
that kind of light.
translated by Agata Miksa and David Malcolm