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
To read more poems by Andrzej Sosnowski, please click here to purchase JUBILAT 4
