Silence. The focus was to be sharp, but the boys ran out of shot.
Waging wars against milk and cats, late already.
Let them be, the set empty but for knives and trainers tossed in the grass.

This time nothing refracts in the sun. In a moment, evening and women,
by the river, taking the washing in. Sheets stained with dried blood.
Let this be in place of narrative, of sunset, in place of everything. Let it.

Nearby, girls playing “house”, tiny princesses in white aprons.
You’ll turn into what you play, they screamed in fear when I wanted to act the witch
from another fairytale. Let it be so that everything comes in images

in place of touch. Let it. The child in the armchair flicking pages.
This an elephant, and this a giraffe, she tells father, though the book sprouts
poisoned mushrooms and hemp leaves. You will not outrun decay, whisper the wings

of nocturnal insects. I do not recognise myself in this, when the light changes.
I run my fingers through the lawn. Let it, let the world shrink before our eyes –
the snare is set, then you hear the lapping of a cat’s tongue as it runs along a blade.

translation: Marek Kazmierski