Translated by Elzbieta Wojcik- Leese
you were burning dry branches and weeds
– I heard fire rustle in the receiver, your whistle when the dogs
once again tried to get at the mole-hills where yesterday
we picked plums from among the rampant grass;
evening drew near – the wind blew breath
into its puppy muzzle.
The sticky prunes, we ate them for supper.
I was leafing through a book on water gardens, photographs
of marsh plants – I wanted to memorize their names: marsh marigold,
sedge, floating pond-weed –
when suddenly you said, “I would like to die
before you.”
In your country house, yesterday, I watched you fall asleep
reading – sleep like a backwash
sewed up the oar of your body.
I took the book out of your hands, switched off the light.
The rib of night
was shining in the branches
(via fuckyeahpolishpoets)
