Such sweet October. Leaves the shade of mud, rain, dried out spit.
As if today decay started a sequence – death’s lining.
It seems last night the river broke its banks, the wind tore up the rails.

It seems fossil traces can be glimpsed now, all you need do is look.
Meanwhile, a babe is born on the firing range, its fingers wire wrapped.
In an empty hospital a naked light bulb giving off opium vapours,

The dead amok in the corridors, surprised the rounds are yet to start.
Meanwhile, the fields run with floods. You, once again, sow the plague
by syringe, cut yourself on a beer bottle cap.

Likely this makes my pulse rust, my blood reek of clay. Let’s say
that tomorrow you will find nothing here – only sand, silt, scraps of paper.
A crater, as if the earth had burst a couple of days ago

and tried to swallow – rains, storms, the sky whole –

to chew it all, then to spit.

translation: Marek Kazmierski